


Trick/Treat

by Lyricoloratura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alerts for bad puns and abuse of Monty Python, As well as a perfectly innocent pillow, Because of course grown men do that, Because they're secretly in love, Brownies, But rather sweet all the same, Even for the fjords as it happens, Fluff and Humor, Halloween, Happy Ending, Hopkins has daddy issues, John is a Murder Hedgehog, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft Holmes is Overwhelmed, Mycroft has a thing for historical accuracy, Not Like That, Not particularly graphic sexy times, Oh Dear, Playlists as love declarations, Second molars are a bitch, Sherlock is a Reluctant Relationship Coach, Sherlock is a good friend and a good brother, Stevie Wonder is Overjoyed, Text Conversations are a Bitch to Format, This leads to some unfortunate moments for otherwise unsuspecting root vegetables, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Turnips killed my father, What do you mean they were that kind of brownies, obviously, of course they are, prepare to die, so very much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-01-04 13:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricoloratura/pseuds/Lyricoloratura
Summary: A Halloween prank goes rather spectacularly off the rails, and we discover what DI Lestrade and Mr. M. Holmes might get up to when Left to Their Own Devices.  It's rather a lot, as it turns out.  (Warning:  turnips — multiple turnips, alas —will definitely be harmed over the course of our tale.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulpesmellifera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/gifts).

> In case you weren't already aware, this is going to be rather a silly little bit of fluff. That said, I do hope you enjoy it even half as much as I've been loving the other works posted to this challenge! Bless every individual hair on the head of our lovely Vulpesmellifera, who has moderated this madness despite having absolutely nothing else to do in her life.

**Oh, Dear**

“Homicide Division, Sgt. Donovan speaking, how may I help you?”

“Sally.” The voice on the other end of the call was familiar; when Donovan had seen the “Withheld” on the ID display, she’d really rather expected it.

“Anthea! All right?”

“I have no idea, honestly — hoping you can help me out with this one. Is Mycroft still there?”

Mycroft Holmes’s right hand assistant definitely sounded a bit put-upon.

“Sorry, Anthea — I can check, but I’ve only been back at the Yard for a few minutes, so I didn’t know that he was here to begin with. You having trouble reaching Himself?”

There was a heartfelt sigh before Anthea replied. “I haven’t heard from either of them since I received two very odd texts from them about ten minutes ago. Nothing to indicate there’s actual danger, I don’t believe, but…”

“Odd?” Sally was definitely intrigued now. “Odd in what way?”

“Both the texts were more or less grocery orders,” Anthea replied bemusedly. “It’s not unheard of, obviously, but it’s not a frequent occurrence. And then… well, you’ll see what I mean. The first, from DI Lestrade, was sending me out for Jelly Babies, Hobnobs and/or Jaffa Cakes, prawn cocktail crisps, pickled onion Monster Munch, and rather a lot of fizzy Vimto. Right on the heels of that one was a text from Mycroft — and he wanted several large turnips, some tea lights, mocha ice cream… and a Colin the Caterpillar cake if I could find one.”

“Not gonna lie, Anthea, that all sounds absolutely vile. I wouldn't have had Holmes pegged for a Colin the Caterpillar type. Turnips I could see, yeah, but..."

She paused, considering. "And I know Greg eats for absolute crap, but never all at once... and I can't imagine him sending _you_ off to do his junk food shopping for him. Seriously, I can’t imagine either of them normally sending you off on such a weird series of errands.”

If Sgt. Donovan had already felt vaguely nauseated by the end of Anthea’s recital, a new idea suddenly struck, turning her stomach to ice.

“Fucking Hopkins…! If he…”

“Sally!” Anthea had assumed the rather commanding voice that Sally called her ‘Don’t forget that I’m the government, too’ voice. (She also thought that tone was dead sexy under the right circumstances; these, unfortunately, were most definitely not the right circumstances.) “What’s going on?”

Donovan could feel a migraine coming on. (_Fucking_ Hopkins.) “I can’t say anything for sure until I go check Greg’s office, but I have a suspicion as to what might be happening. I’ll go up to the DI’s office, then I’ll call you back on my secure number and get you caught up to speed.”

“Scale of one to ten, Sally — if your suspicion is correct?” Over the course of the past few years, Anthea had developed a healthy respect for Sgt. Donovan’s instincts. (She'd also manage to develop a rather pathetic crush on the frankly gorgeous sergeant, but that was immaterial, especially right now.)

“A lot of different factors in play — but I’d say, scale of picnic in the park to Armageddon? Maybe anywhere from a one to a four. But I’ll let you know as soon as I have any more information.”

The click from the other end told Anthea that Sally had hung up. She’d wait to hear back — but in the meantime, she had to create a profoundly disquieting grocery list for her intern to start picking up.

This was not at all the Friday afternoon she’d anticipated.

Her phone buzzed again; Mycroft.

_We’ll also need a power drill, and bits_.

_Oh, **dear**_, she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: What Fucking Hopkins Hath Wrought


	2. The Brownies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein you will be given a good deal of backstory before you may have any cake.

**Chapter 2**

_Scotland Yard, about one hour previous to our prologue:_

Mycroft could see that he had arrived at Greg’s office before the Detective Inspector had the chance to get back to the Yard himself. In his own inimitable style, Lestrade had invited him to await his arrival via text message:

_Stuck at sodding crime scene waiting on the techs to finish up, will be few minutes late. Make yourself at home in my office, Hopkins said he left me some Halloween goodies on my desk, you can help yourself if you’re feeling peckish. And yeah I know we’re having dinner, but remember what I say, sometimes you ought to have dessert first. Sherlock and his shit about you & cake can go get fucked, seriously. See you in a couple._

~o0o~

One of the most positive circumstances to ensue from the otherwise disastrous situation with his sister’s horrific one-woman crime spree from Sherrinford, Mycroft mused, had been the friendship that had gradually been built between himself and Lestrade. There had always been a kind of grudging respect between the two men ever since the early days of their joint efforts to keep Sherlock on the right side of the law – _or at least the right side of the grass_, as Lestrade would have added at that point. 

Lestrade had no reason to care about Sherlock, to try as hard as he did to see that he didn’t come to harm – it seemed to simply be part of who he was as a human being. Mycroft eventually decided to add that facet of Lestrade’s character to the _very_ short list of Things That He Simply Was Not Going to Understand -- but he certainly appreciated having an ally in looking out for his wayward little brother. Perhaps the detective thought of Sherlock as his friend, though that seemed highly unlikely given how dreadfully Sherlock treated him. And if Mycroft had felt an odd discomfort at the idea of Lestrade and Sherlock being friends, it was born of confusion… and certainly NOT jealousy.

Over time, he and Lestrade had actually come to rather like one another, and the working relationship had become more collegial – but it still could hardly have been described as a friendship. At that stage of his life, Mycroft considered the idea of “friendship” to be trite and plebian, and clearly beneath him. Like love or physical affection, it was a needless complication that had no place in the life of someone with his degree of intelligence. 

Clearly.

Mycroft himself had first become the astonished beneficiary of the DI’s rather tenacious loyalty after Eurus had captured and essentially tried to kill him; Lestrade’s was the first face Mycroft could recall seeing after he’d been returned, shaken and disoriented, to his flat in London. Before Mycroft’s arrival, the DI had not only managed to get access to Mycroft’s home, but to find and prepare a truly startling selection of what he referred to as “comfort food,” which he then proceeded to shovel into Mycroft at regular intervals when he wasn’t tucking him into his bed as though he were a recalcitrant toddler instead of the thrice-damned British government. _Who happened to be acting like a damn toddler_, Lestrade would have added.

No one had treated him like a toddler even when he _was _a toddler, come to think of it. 

_And you rather liked the treatment, no matter what you say now_, said what Mycroft privately had come to think of as his “inner Gregory Lestrade voice.” 

And as per bloody usual, the voice was correct; Mycroft discovered to his dismay that he did indeed enjoy being the center of Gregory’s attention and care – although Lestrade had a rather unconventional idea of exactly the kind of _care_ Mycroft might require after his ordeal. (As it turned out, “recovery” for Greg Lestrade looked like watching a lot of “Quite Interesting” and reruns of Monty Python – and honestly, the less said about the odd caterpillar-shaped chocolate roll cake from Marks & Spencer, the better.) If Mycroft had developed a lingering fondness for any of these bizarre things, he knew whom to blame. 

Between odd TV shows and breaks for caterpillar cake and the like, there had been long talks about absolute trivia (beginning as monologues on Lestrade’s part, with Mycroft gradually contributing more and more to the conversation), and equally long periods of comfortable silence as they each sat on opposite ends of Mycroft’s enormous sofa. Mycroft found both the talking and the silence to be unaccountably relaxing; he’d had no idea he could feel so at ease with another human being.

Lestrade didn’t leave Mycroft’s flat – barely left his side – for the first four days after Sherrinford, and thereafter had become a frequent enough visitor that the housekeeper had started asking after him if he hadn’t been by for a few days. Mycroft honestly had no idea when a spare pair of Gregory’s reading glasses had taken up residence on his end table next to the remote control _(Friday, 14 April)_, nor the first time there had been a toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste _(Colgate Total)_ given their own place in the guest bathroom medicine cabinet _(Thursday, 29 June.)_

Eventually, Mycroft had to admit that the two of them had somehow become very close friends indeed – and the situation was neither trite nor plebian as he’d previously posited, but in fact had made his day-to-day life significantly more pleasant.<strike></strike>

The friendship was definitely one of the few benefits of the havoc Eurus had left behind.

~o0o~

With a moue of distaste, Mycroft used the handle of his umbrella to flip the grubby light switch inside the DI’s office doorway, allowing himself the privilege of sitting in Gregory’s desk chair instead of the frankly horrifying excuse for a visitor’s chair the Yard provided him with. (Not that the desk chair was much better, but it was slightly more comfortable, <strike>and it smelled just a bit of Gregory and his cologne</strike>.)

_Good lord. It was slightly more comfortable. Full stop._

As Mycroft absentmindedly swiveled a bit back and forth in Gregory’s chair, he caught sight of the little Halloween-orange bakery box that must contain the “goodies” Greg had mentioned as coming from Hopkins; intrigued, he reached over to pick up the box and look in through the little cellophane “window” for peeking in.

He huffed out a short chuckle; oh, these _would_ appeal to Gregory’s somewhat macabre sense of humor to absolutely no end. In the box were a half-dozen beautifully decorated little brownies, cut (or molded, Mycroft couldn’t properly tell through the plastic) to the shape of old-fashioned coffins, with little white skeletons deftly sketched on the tops in icing. 

For once, it seemed, Stanley Hopkins had found a “joke gift” that its intended recipient might actually enjoy – and it was well past time, as Greg had complained heartily on more than one occasion about the constable’s tendency for egregiously overstepping the bounds of propriety in the name of what he considered humorous. He had defended Hopkins several times to superiors after one or another of the constable’s “jokes” had gone awry, citing his youth and inexperience as mitigating factors, but every man had his limits – and by now, Gregory Lestrade’s patience with Stanley Hopkins was (quite appropriately, Mycroft thought) very close to its end. 

Smiling slightly, Mycroft popped open the small adhesive seal that held the box closed, stopping to enjoy the scent of rich chocolate that wafted up from the little brownies.

_Make yourself at home_, Gregory had said. _Have dessert first_.

What the hell, thought Mycroft, why not?

Picking up one of the whimsical treats, he determined that his first aim would be to decapitate the little skeleton grinning up at him.

“Lay on, Macduff,” he said apropos of nothing as he took a healthy bite out of the brownie.

~o0o~

“And damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!” 

Greg, walking into the office, fought back a chuckle as Mycroft had damn near jumped out of his skin – it was unusual enough to ever catch a Holmes by surprise, but he doubted that Myc would much enjoy being giggled at just now with his mouth full of… _ooh, yum, brownies_.

Oh, but now Mycroft was glowering at him – the man was just like a cat sometimes, and really, really hated being caught doing something embarrassing.

“What?” Greg said in his best “who, me?” voice. “I thought maybe it was ‘Quote Macbeth to Pastries Day’ and somehow I’d missed it on the calendar.” He followed it up with what he hoped was an innocent-looking flutter of eyelashes. “I mean, you know how often I miss the memo about things around here.”

And yes, Greg Lestrade knew that he was absolute pants at acting innocent – but Mycroft’s attempt at a disgusted eyeroll was accompanied by the beginnings of a grin, so he also knew that he’d succeeded in his original goal anyway.

“Hope you weren’t waiting for me too long,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I know that you of all people know about unforeseen delays, but…” Lestrade’s attention strayed down to the box of brownies, and he interrupted himself with a laugh. “Oh, these look lovely, don’t they?” He pulled a little coffin out of the box, raising it to Mycroft as if in a toast. “They taste as good as they look?”

Now Mycroft really did smile back. “They’re excellent. Highly recommend eating dessert first today.”

“Can’t ignore a recommendation like that from someone with your refined taste, Monsieur Holmes.” Looking lugubriously down at the skeleton in his hand, Greg said solemnly, “Sir, we’re so sorry, but we’ll have to amputate from the knees down.” With that, he proceeded to perform the “amputation” with great enthusiasm.

“Too right,” he said, chewing delightedly. “These are absolutely scrumptious. Looks like Hopkins might have finally pulled his head out of his arse with this one.”

“Indeed,” agreed Mycroft, removing his skeleton’s left arm with a dainty bite. “I’d be curious to know the name of the bakery where he found these; they have the most intriguing aftertaste. I’d say they’re almost exotic, if such a thing could be said of something as prosaic as a brownie.”

By this point, Lestrade had managed to “amputate” his chocolate patient all the way to his neck… and Mycroft’s words made him stop and consider the “intriguing aftertaste” himself. (In fairness, if you don’t ever actually stop eating, an aftertaste is hard to come by.)

_Intriguing aftertaste, indeed._

_Goddamn it all to hell, anyway._

_**Fucking** Hopkins._

“Mycroft, put the brownie down.” 

At Greg’s suddenly grim tone, Mycroft’s expression went from relaxed to alarmed. “What? What is it?” His phone was in his hand immediately, and Greg realized that some reassurance was going to be needed. 

Fuck, a LOT of reassurance, if he had his guess.

“Nah, you can put the phone down, too – nothing terrible’s going to happen. But if I’m not mistaken, you and I have just been eating some weed brownies.”

Mycroft looked confused. “Neither of us are gluten intolerant, Gregory, so it shouldn’t –”

“Not _wheat_, Myc. _Weed._ Marijuana. THC.” 

_And the reassurance would begin in 3, 2, 1…_

“Gregory! I can’t possibly be under the influence of illegal drugs! What if…”

“Easy there, big fella. Neither of us are likely to be tested for weed, Myc, and if we were for some reason, we both have plausible deniability on our side with this one. Meanwhile, we’re going to ride this out, and it’s going to be just fine. I have a plan.”

Mycroft was begrudgingly impressed with Gregory’s confidence and calm, commanding presence – even though he rather believed that the DI was speaking to him a bit like he might have done to a spooked stallion in a bad American cowboy movie.

Greg had walked over to the mini fridge in his office, pulling out two bottles of water. He handed one to Mycroft before opening one for himself.

“Drink that now, and I’ll get you another one for the car. We’re gonna get hydrated and keep as much water as we can in our systems.” He gestured to the phone that was still in Mycroft’s hand. “Go ahead and call your driver – we’ll get takeaway for dinner at yours tonight instead of trying to go out.”

“Is Henry going to notice that we’re… compromised?” Greg’s heart twisted at the nervousness in Mycroft’s voice; this man could stand up to world superpowers when he had enough background information to make reasoned decisions, but this was uncharted territory for him. It was going to be up to Greg to project expertise in this situation – and although he’d never been what anyone would call a “stoner” in high school or at uni, he had clearly been high more frequently than Mycroft.

“Unlikely,” he said calmly. “The thing with the edibles is that they typically take a long time to absorb, to take effect; we probably have an hour or more before it really affects us. In fact, a lot of people get themselves into trouble with edibles when they don’t feel anything at first, so they eat more – and then when it kicks in, it _really_ kicks in.”

Mycroft’s eyes were wide. “Is it possible that we’ve overdosed? We both consumed a sizable amount of our brownies.”

“No fear, Myc. Even if for some reason we’ve eaten an exceptionally high dose of THC – also unlikely – there’s never been a recorded case of a lethal overdose from marijuana.” He put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sure if you review the data in your mind, you’ll realize you already know that if we were going to have to be slipped a drug inadvertently, we got the safest concoction we could’ve asked for. I know you don’t like it, and neither do I – but it’s gonna be fine.” 

Handing Mycroft his coat and brolly, Greg threw his trench coat over his arm. “Let’s head down to the car,” he said with a smile. (Mycroft was almost – _almost_ – smiling, too. Maybe Greg was better at this whole reassurance bit than he’d realized.) We’ve got about an hour to get ourselves settled in to prepare to get well and truly stoned, and if it’s inevitable, we’re damn well going to enjoy it. At any rate, I have to send Anthea a very specific list to get filled before we begin.”

Who knew eating corpses could be cute?


	3. Honouring Our British Heritage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historical authenticity, root vegetables, and vengeance.

Chapter 3

** _Because honestly, the turnips had it coming_ **

It was just coming up on sunset as Mycroft slid into the back seat of his car next to Gregory, closing the door behind them both. Gregory was looking very intently at his phone as he painstakingly typed in what Mycroft knew to be a text to Anthea. He was also looking painfully handsome as the last of the sunlight gilded his profile and shone russet in his silver hair… but that was another topic altogether, and one best left well alone.

Mycroft was, however, still intrigued by something Lestrade had said previously. “You mentioned that you have a plan. Am I to be privy to this plan, or is it a secret?”

Gregory looked up, slightly startled. “Oh!” He had a rather adorably flustered look on his face. “No, no secret involved – at least not secret to you.” He patted his phone as though it were part of the conversation. “I didn’t see the need to mention to Anthea what our, um, _situation_ was – I figured you could do that if you wanted to – but I gave her a list of stuff we might want to have laid in for when things start getting interesting in a bit.”

That certainly made Mycroft not one bit less intrigued. “Oh, do tell,” he smiled. “What kinds of supplies do you think we’ll require for our evening of accidental intoxication?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never been high, then?” Not that Lestrade didn’t already know the answer, but it was quickly confirmed by Mycroft’s brief shake of the head. “Well, my friend, one of the more infamous side effects of being high on marijuana is a phenomenon known as ‘the munchies.’ You find yourself getting unaccountably hungry for random food – in my admittedly limited experience, the trashier, the better. So I pulled together a quick list of trashy stuff I know we both like, and I had Anthea send someone to go pick it up for us.”

Taking the offered phone from Gregory’s hand, Mycroft looked over the text he’d sent to Anthea. He couldn’t help chuckling just a bit at what his assistant’s reaction had to have been upon receipt of such a list; if nothing else, she had to be having a hard time reconciling herself to the idea of her employer even knowing what Fizzy Vimto _was_, much less drinking it.

It was, by and large, a good list, Mycroft concluded – though not entirely complete. He turned to Gregory with a raised eyebrow and his best faux-supercilious tone. “Detective Inspector,” he sighed, “as usual, you’ve missed some exceedingly important details.”

Lestrade had looked affronted for a split second before he saw the twitch in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth as he halfheartedly held back a grin. “Is that so, Mr. Holmes? Then I suppose, as usual, you’ll have to take pity upon my ignorance and correct me in the error of my ways.”

Any effort he’d made to suppress the grin abandoned, Mycroft let out a quick huff of laughter. “As though you could be so easily corrected – it would take longer than just this evening, I fear.” Pulling out his own phone, he quickly tapped out another message to his almost certainly baffled assistant, showing it to Gregory before hitting the send button. “As you see, my esteemed friend, you forgot some key supplies in your list.”

Greg looked over Mycroft’s additions with a grin of his own. “Oh, too right – can’t do without some ice cream and a lovely little chocolate caterpillar to share it with.” 

_Who’d have ever thought,_ he mused, _that I’d manage to get Mycroft Bloody Holmes hooked on Colin the Bloody Caterpillar? _Feeling a perverse sense of accomplishment, he leaned back against the cushy leather headrest and closed his eyes with a tiny, smug smile. It was at times like this that Greg felt as though he and Mycroft had been best mates for ages – and still felt a sense of amazement that a brilliant and cultured bloke like Mycroft Holmes would ever have any interest in spending time with a worn-out old copper who was (at least comparatively) a complete idiot.

It was also at times like these that Greg Lestrade would caution himself against looking a gift horse in the mouth. As it was, his friendship with Mycroft was easily the best thing that had happened to him for honestly as long as he could remember – no use in questioning it if he could just enjoy it instead.

And if Greg’s feelings toward the brilliant, cultured _(kind, funny, gorgeous)_ bloke felt like a lot more than friendship these days – well, that was Greg’s business, and certainly best kept to himself.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s concerned voice broke into his thoughts. “Are you feeling at all unwell?”

Opening his eyes, Greg smiled back reassuringly. “Not a bit. Just enjoying this posh back seat as usual. You all right?”

“Still feeling quite normal for the time being, for which I’m grateful. I’ll be relieved if we can wait until we reach home before, as you put it, things get interesting.”

Lestrade looked appraisingly at his friend; if he knew Mycroft Holmes (and he damn well did), his friend was starting to let his mind wander into unpleasant places. No sense in letting him get worried now – it would be really awful if Mycroft ended up feeling uptight and paranoid once the weed kicked in. 

_So… distraction._

“Y’know, we might wanna do more than just eat junk food and watch Monty Python when we get back to yours – maybe we can think of something we can get up to in the kitchen?”

Mycroft seemed to relax a bit as his mind started generating new ideas. “Hmmm… it _is_ almost Halloween; maybe we could make popcorn balls for the trick or treaters? I remember those went over quite well when our cook made them for the local children – and they were also lovely to snack on.”

“I don’t doubt it – but you know yourself that you never get any kids trick or treating at your place, and neither do I. Parents aren’t sending their little ones prowling around where all the old single folk live. But… hey, here’s a thought! We could carve a jack o’ lantern or two to put on your windowsill for decoration! We could have Anthea’s intern pick us up a couple of pumpkins, yeah?” Greg was mentally patting himself on the back – not only would that be a good distraction, but it actually did sound like fun. He missed the days of scooping out slimy pumpkin innards with his giggling young nieces.

“Pumpkins?” Mycroft actually sounded affronted. “I think not. You know,” he went on, “pumpkins are NOT British – not a bit of it. _Colonists_ brought them back,” he sniffed with disgust that Greg was pretty sure wasn’t a joke.

“Oooooh…kay?” What was he supposed to do with _that_? “So, Myc, I know we had jack o’ lanterns before the colonists – what did they use back before pumpkins?”

Mycroft was clearly warming to the topic. “They used what they had, Gregory – and so shall we. In the interest of historical authenticity, so our children can better understand their British heritage, we’ll use the original materials. We’ll carve turnips, just as our forbears used to do.”

_Turnips? What the actual…?_ “I’m all for historical authenticity, Mycroft – but have you ever tried to _cut_ a turnip? Those bastards are hard as a rock! I’m not at all confident that we’d be able to carve them up and make them look like anything approaching a jack o’ lantern.”

Mycroft only looked slightly nonplussed. “You definitely have a point, Gregory. But I’d have to guess that the internet could provide us with some ideas, wouldn’t you think? Let’s see… I’m going to look at a website that Mummy is always on about and see if they have any hints about how to go about carving turnips.” With that, Mycroft’s laser-like focus was thoroughly devoted to the screen of his phone – and in the blink of an eye, the man who was arguably the most powerful in Britain was pages deep into (of all things) Pinterest, looking at instructional sites for how to carve authentic Celtic turnips.

After a few minutes, he looked up at Greg with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Here,” he said, tapping his phone screen, “here’s how we’ll do it. Do you think I have a power drill in the utility closet?”

Greg didn’t laugh. He was proud of himself. “No, Myc, I don’t think you’re particularly keen on household DIY projects as a general rule, so I’m guessing your flat isn’t hiding a store of power tools.” (Evidently unlike Mycroft, he had actually set foot inside Mycroft’s “utility closet,” which contained a vacuum cleaner, some extra luggage, and not much else. Power drill, indeed.) “That said,” he grinned, “there’s no reason why Anthea’s little intern can’t bring one on his way.”

That last addition drew an undignified snort of laughter from Mycroft; “Anthea’s little intern” was nearly a head taller than Gregory, and eighteen stone of solid muscle if he was an ounce. Greg perversely insisted upon referring to Marcus as “the little intern,” much to the young man’s silent consternation and to Mycroft’s continued amusement.

The muffled giggle from the man next to him told Mycroft that his amusement had been Lestrade’s aim. _Crafty bastard._ Mycroft glanced surreptitiously over at Greg, then allowed himself to look a bit longer as he noted that the detective had dropped his head back onto the seat again, eyes closed and still smiling. Mycroft smiled as well, then turned away to send another request to Anthea.

_Crafty, gorgeous bastard._

~o0o~

Marcus Welby had frequent cause to be grateful that Mr. Holmes didn’t live in a walk-up. Today especially, with the varied and awkwardly shaped parcels he was carrying, he was glad of the lift to the fifth floor.

He shifted the shopping bags yet again in his arms, trying to keep the bloody turnips – honestly, five enormous fucking _turnips_ – from rolling merrily away. Yet again.

_Join MI6_, they told him. _It’ll be like James Bond_, they told him. _Serve Queen and country_, they told him. 

For this he’d left _medical_ school, for Christ’s sake.

_Bloody turnips._

DI Lestrade was there to meet him at the door, which saved him from having to ring the bell with an elbow. 

“Here now, young Marcus, let me help you with some of that,” Lestrade said with a broad smile. He fumbled just a bit as he tried to slide the handles of a couple of the bags off Marcus’ arm…

…and of bloody_ course_ the damned turnips found the opportunity to go on yet another break for freedom, rolling their heavy, horrid little selves across the hardwood of Mr. Holmes’ entryway.

_Motherfucking bastarding turnips, anyway._

“Couldn’t agree with you more, Marcus,” muttered Lestrade – _shit, he’d said that aloud_ – but the DI was smiling. “I tried to convince Myc to do jack o’ lanterns with pumpkins, but ohhhh, no. ‘Historical accuracy,’ he says. ‘Honour our British heritage,’ he says.” 

Surprised, Marcus ended up just barely holding back a laugh, as Lestrade had said those last bits in what was actually pretty much a spot-on impression of Mr. Holmes.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but jack o’ lanterns? These seem like they’d be pretty tough carving, don’t you think?”

“Indeed I do,” the older man agreed with a bit of a resigned eye roll. “With luck, you’ve brought the drill and bits that Myc asked for?” 

Fishing through another bag, Marcus found the items in question, holding them up for Lestrade’s approval as suddenly the proverbial lightbulb switched on for him.

“I think I get the gist, sir – you’ll slice off the tops and then hollow ‘em out with the drill?”

“Just so, lad.” The DI nodded sagely. “There will be some significant violence to be done to these grubby little monsters before they’re finally carved.” 

An entire wordless conversation took place between the two men in the space of just a few seconds, and they shared a knowing smile before Marcus scooped the recalcitrant roots back into the bag.

“If you’ve a knife, sir, I’ll take these filthy bastards down to the garage with the drill and get ‘em ready for you.” Marcus certainly wasn’t one to seek out vengeance, but tonight? Tonight was another story.

In less than a minute, young Marcus was equipped with a rather savage-looking blade and sent on his bloodthirsty way, much to Greg’s amusement.

Shortly thereafter, a smiling Mycroft – now changed into more casual clothing for their evening in – wandered into the kitchen where Gregory was taking inventory of the new groceries and putting them away as necessary.

“Oh, did I miss little Marcus?” Mycroft was clearly glad to be back on his home turf, and had visibly relaxed now that they were safely at home.

“Yes and no,” Gregory replied. “He’s down in the garage even as we speak, going all Inigo Montoya on the turnips with a big knife and the drill.”

_The Princess Bride_ was one of the movies to which Mycroft had been introduced by Gregory, and always a well-loved staple for movie nights – so Mycroft greeted this particular description with startled amusement.

“Oh, dear,” he replied as seriously as he could, given the circumstances. “I’ll have to pass along my condolences to the poor lad about his father.” 

“Alas, yes,” Gregory was doing his best to look philosophical, and failing spectacularly. “Damned homicidal turnips, anyway. But –” he reached for a couple of bowls that waited on the counter, and pulled a new carton of mocha ice cream from the freezer, “Marcus will be finding that revenge, much like ice cream, is a dish best served cold.”

Unfortunately for Mycroft, his grip on solemnity was not much stronger than Greg’s, but damned if he wouldn’t give it the King’s College try. “Ought we to send some of the whipped cream down to Marcus to enjoy with his vengeance?”

Gregory had been using an aerosol can of whipped cream to garnish the freshly-scooped ice cream – a move that went terribly awry as he doubled over laughing without first letting go of the nozzle. When he straightened up again, he was rather liberally adorned with whipped cream himself, and laughing so hard that he had to support himself against the kitchen counter.

Mycroft, absolutely convulsed with silent merriment, had to grope for a kitchen chair and sit down before his legs failed him. Did Gregory know that he was wearing whipped cream on his nose? 

More to the point, might he enjoy it if Mycroft licked it off?

_Oh, dear. Probably best not to ask._

After rather a while, Gregory looked over at Mycroft with a somewhat unfocused expression. 

Well, perhaps his expression was unfocused; it was hard to tell, as Gregory in his entirety seemed just a bit off-kilter.

“Off-kilter,” Mycroft mused aloud, seemingly out of nowhere. “What, one wonders, is ‘kilter,’ and how does one find oneself _on_ it? Is it one of those odd conditions where you’re only aware if you’re _off _it? Because that hardly seems fair.”

With that, Greg smiled broadly, even as his knees seemed to give way and he slid slowly down the cabinet onto the kitchen floor – still, impressively, holding his bowl of ice cream.

“That’s me answered, then,” he said – also seemingly out of nowhere. “I was wondering when it was gonna hit us, and now we know.”

“Indeed we do,” Mycroft agreed with a slightly more emphatic nod than he’d intended. “Gracious,” he murmured, surprised. “That made the whole room move.”

Greg was smiling warmly up at him from his spot on the floor. “Best hold on, then, love – there’s more where that came from, I’d guess.” 

At that point, Mycroft had no idea what had the room spinning for him – whether it was that he was well and truly high as a kite…

…or whether it was hearing Gregory Lestrade call him “love.”

==============================================

**No kidding, this is what a turnip jack o' lantern looks like.**

And there are worse ones by far, but I didn't want to add archive warnings ;-)

It's a wonder that children ever went trick or treating at all  
if they had to deal with this horrifying thing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're one of those people who notices things, you'll have noticed that this piece has gone from being a projected four-chapter story to a five-chapter one. I had every intention of this story going one way, and now these lovely gents have informed me that it'll be going rather another -- hence, another chappie added on. And I've thrown in a truly obscure ancient pop culture reference just for my own amusement, but I'll be absolutely ecstatic if someone else picks up on it. Much love to you all, and may all your fathers ever be safe from turnips!


	4. Pinin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea's young intern is in for a few surprises.

** _Chapter 4_ **

** _In Which We Check in with Young Marcus Welby. Also, There is a Parrot._ **

“Status, Welby?”

“I’ve delivered all the requested items to Mr. Holmes and DI Lestrade, Ms. McMillan, and the gentlemen were both fine when I last saw them.”

“And you’re clear with your instructions?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m to stay close by and make sure neither of the gentlemen leave the building before morning.” Marcus paused for a moment. “Does the DI make a habit of staying the night, ma’am, or will I need to dissuade him from leaving, do you think?”

“You should be fine. Lestrade has been there late at night often enough that he’s used to holing up in the guest room – I’m sure he’ll do the same this evening.”

“That’s good, then. Either way, ma’am, I’ll be heading back up to Mr. Holmes’ flat in a little while; I’m… doing a bit of an errand for them in the garage workshop just now, but I’ll have the opportunity to check in on them again within the half hour, I believe.” Marcus smiled, satisfied, at the accumulated carnage that had until recently been the insides of three turnips.

_Two more, you little bastards._

“Hmmm… errand?” Anthea blew out a sigh that could have been relief or exasperation. “I don’t think I’m going to ask for clarification there – because I’m reasonably sure I that don’t want to know.”

“Right. Plausible deniability, and all that. Probably for the best, ma’am, yes.” 

He tried (and failed) to imagine Anthea’s face if he told her that these two dedicated and usually dignified public servants would shortly be mangling some unsuspecting root vegetables (well, maybe the two turnips that hadn’t yet been gutted might have started suspecting that something was afoot – who could say), all in the name of celebrating Halloween.

~oOo~

“Gregory…”

If Greg didn’t know better, he’d have thought that Mycroft was in some kind of dire trouble, judging only by the tone of his voice. Greg could see from his well-chosen vantage point on the kitchen floor that Myc was in the midst of negotiating something with plastic packaging, and was having less success than he usually experienced in negotiations of any kind.

The distress in Mycroft’s voice told Greg that it would now be necessary to stand up to help his friend, and that he should probably formulate a plan for doing so in the near future. He glanced at the floor around him to see if there were any conveniently-placed spots to grab hold of for support, and had begun to despair just a bit when a lovely pair of feet came into his line of vision. Not just any feet, of course, but Mycroft’s. Greg, detective that he was, recognized the soft, fuzzy socks with Union Jacks woven throughout as the ones he’d given Mycroft as a joke gift for the official observation of the Queen’s birthday. 

Moreover, Mycroft’s were the only feet besides his own that were currently in the flat, so he felt fairly confident in his deduction.

_I can deduct, too. Take that, Sherlock._

“Whaaat?” Mycroft’s confused voice drifted down toward him.

“Oh – so sorry. Just thinking aloud there.” _Oops._

“Do you often… _think aloud_ at my brother?”

“More often than I’d like – usually I’m actually trying to talk to the little blighter, but he’s already swished away in his damn swishy coat, hasn’t he, and left me shouting into the open air like a madman.”

Mycroft nodded sagely. “I’ve experienced something quite similar all too frequently.” He hadn’t really thought of Sherlock in terms of being a “little blighter,” but discovered that it was not only a fitting term, but really rather charming of Gregory to have come up with.

The charming Gregory was looking up at him now with warmth and concern in his (admittedly somewhat glassy – though still entirely lovely) brown eyes. “Myc, darlin’, what had you so fussed a moment ago? Is there something I can help you with?” He looked around at his current situation, clearly somewhat discouraged. “Especially if I can help you from the floor, because I haven’t figured out an exit strategy yet.” 

Truly, Gregory did seem a bit stymied, for lack of a better word, as he sat upon Mycroft’s kitchen floor, leaning back against the cabinetry and eating his bowl of ice cream with a sort of philosophical resignation.

It occurred to Mycroft (astonishingly belatedly) that he could, in fact, be of some assistance in this matter. He made a note to himself that this marijuana business was definitely not good for his mental acuity – nor, judging by his impaired ability to open the bag of Quavers on the kitchen table, was it assisting his manual dexterity.

Meanwhile, Gregory remained on the floor, looking rather as though he’d be there for the foreseeable future if not for some well-timed help. Mycroft reached down to help him hoist himself up off the tiles, which had to be rather chilly at this time of evening.

“Permit me to assist in the exit strategy, Gregory.” With a bit of a grunt on the part of the British Government and some mutual staggering to and fro, the Detective Inspector was restored to his original vertical status.

“Regular Nigel Farage, you are, mate.” Greg’s eyes were twinkling in a way that told Mycroft that he knew he was being awful, and had every intention of doing so again.

“Dear God, man, never say –”

“You did it! You pulled off Greg-xit!”

He should’ve known that was coming. Damn the man, if he weren’t so beautiful in every conceivable way, Mycroft would have him arrested. 

Which he jolly well could, thank you very much.

“And you… if I were a lesser man, you would be cast out into the street, you vile reprobate. Farage, indeed.”

“You’re right, darlin’, I apologize for that part. But you’ve gotta admit that the ‘Greg-xit’ bit was just a little bit inspired, yeah?”

Time had slowed to a crawl for Mycroft; the tiny accountant in his head who counted everything, all the time, was reporting excitedly that this was one “love” and two “darlin’s” out of Gregory’s mouth in the past three minutes. Did Gregory even know he was speaking these endearments – and did he mean them as such, or were they just conversational placeholders that Mycroft had yet to hear him use? 

“Myc?”

_Good lord, Holmes, don’t stand there gawping like a simpleton. The man is speaking to you._

“Oh, indeed. Inspired.”

Those quizzical brown eyes were watching his face far too closely. For all that Sherlock claimed to think Lestrade was an idiot, the man had not risen through the ranks at Scotland Yard by accident; he was a detective, and a damned good one. Mycroft wasn’t a bit sure that he wanted Detective Gregory trying to deduce him just now.

Time for some evasive maneuvers, and he knew the perfect plan for success.

“Open these damnable Quavers, won’t you, Gregory? I feel a sudden insurmountable need to partake in some unnaturally orange snack food and to watch some Monty Python.”

As hoped, Detective Gregory was gone in a flash. 

“Ooooh, if that doesn’t sound just exactly perfect! Mycroft, you’re a genius.”

**~o0o~**

All in all, Marcus considered it an evening fairly well spent – at least for him, if not really for the turnips. After about 90 minutes of knife-wielding and drill-bitting _(and no, that’s not a verb, but it is now, you fucking little horrors)_, he’d managed to hollow out all five of the gruesome, rooty bastards and had them all ready to present to Messrs. Holmes and Lestrade. Damned if he hadn’t even figured out how to whittle away a part of the bottom of each turnip so that the filthy, unspeakable little rotters couldn’t roll away while they were being mangled – _carved_, of course, carved – by two middle-aged men who had, until quite recently, had seemed to Marcus to be the living, breathing representations of Law and Order.

Not tonight, though – tonight, he thought as the fifth-floor lift doors opened, something was clearly different, though he’d yet to put his finger on it.

Welby’s musings were quickly cut short as he heard raised voices on the other side of Mr. Holmes’ door, and a surge of adrenaline nearly had him rushing in with his firearm drawn – but then he paused, and listened.

“Do have a bit of care, there, Gregory – my grandmere needlepointed that pillow for me when I spent the summer holiday with her in Provence!’

“I don’t care what you say, sirrah!” It was Lestrade who was doing the shouting, Marcus saw as he crept in unobserved – but he was smiling broadly as he waved a small needlepointed pillow that looked like…

…aha. A parrot. A parrot which he tossed into the air, snorting with laughter when it landed in Mr. Holmes’ lap.

“Now that,” he stated, “is what I call a dead parrot.”

Nobody at MI-6, nobody in the fucking _galaxy_ would believe Marcus if he told them what happened next – because Mycroft Bleeding Antarctica Holmes picked up the pillow, looked up at Lestrade, and said…

“No, no… No, ‘e’s stunned!”

“STUNNED?”

“Yeah, you stunned him, just as ‘e was wakin’ up! Norwegian Blues stun easily.”

Marcus, like every Englishman worth his salt, was well familiar with the “Dead Parrot Sketch” – though he didn’t have it memorized as these two obviously did.

_What the actual fuck,_ he thought as he stole quietly into the kitchen to deposit the turnips. Yeah, he was supposed to be stationed outside in the hallway, but he was going to have to hear how this one ended. 

Besides, Lestrade was getting shouty again. If asked later, he could plead ignorance and say he was guarding Mr. Holmes.

“… ‘E’s bleedin’ demised!”

“No, no! He’s pinin’!”

Damned if Mycroft Holmes wasn’t absolutely channeling Terry Palin; it was_ insane_. And to be fair, the DI did a pretty creditable John Cleese.

“'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible! He's fuckin' snuffed it!”

Suddenly, calm as you please, Lestrade stopped, looked over at Mr. Holmes, and in his normal conversational tone, asked, “She made it in Provence, did you say?”

Mr. Holmes, red-faced from trying to suppress laughter, simply nodded in return as Lestrade sailed straight back into character, waving the pillow.

“This is…”

“Oh God, Gregory, don’t…” The laughter wasn’t suppressed anymore.

“This is an Aix parrot!”

And that was the last straw, as Marcus absolutely had to turn on his phone’s voice recorder for a few moments before forwarding a sound file with a text to his boss.

_I don’t know what’s going on here, ma’am, but the British Government giggles like a little girl. **Attachment, 1 Audio File**_


	5. A Little Night Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear.
> 
> Not going to be five chapters. 
> 
> Meanwhile...

** _Chapter 5 -- A Little Night Music_ **

** _With a Bit of a Cuddle, and Angst_ **

Greg hung the damp and slightly worse for wear tea towel over the edge of the kitchen sink. Mrs. Hedgecock would no doubt be a bit scandalized when she saw the shape the flat was in when she came through to tidy up after the weekend, but it wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

_And after all_, Greg rationalized, _she** is** the housekeeper. And it’s not as though Mycroft usually leaves her with much to do._

At any rate, the worst of the aftermath of the Carnage of the Turnips ™ had been dealt with – not that His Nibs had been any help with that at all. Between the two of them, they’d successfully (more or less) carved three passable-looking historically accurate British Jack o’ Lanterns. Their first attempt was given up for a lost cause after being mangled rather unrecognizably – but then they managed a joint attempt between them as well as an individual carving each. 

Rather than going on to the fifth ghoul-in-waiting, Greg had decided that it’d be fair play to leave one to the tender mercies of young Welby; he’d seemed a little disturbingly eager to finish carving that last remaining turnip, but Greg was willing to lay the blame for that on some of the lad’s MI-6 training.

A quick text to Anthea had helped him locate a few of those ridiculously fussy little LED tea light candles in a drawer to put into the newly-carved turnips – normally, Greg had nothing but scorn for the artificial lights, but tonight he was more than glad to avoid the risk of setting Mycroft’s flat on fire. It had been challenge enough for Greg’s muddled mind and currently somewhat questionable reflexes to toss the frankly shocking number of empty snack wrappers into the kitchen bin.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft had been no help whatsoever in almost any of the tidying-up enterprises upon which Greg had embarked so… enterprisingly. As it was, it had been a job for both himself and little Marcus Welby to keep the British Government from lopping off one of his truly lovely fingers with a carving knife whilst making a horrifying turnip look even more horrifying.

The most brilliant and preternaturally self-contained man Greg had ever met was, in a word, _stoned_.

Granted, tonight hadn’t been the first time Greg had heard Mycroft cut loose into what he personally considered to be a perfectly charming giggle – though in fairness, he usually stopped after just a few seconds, and tonight The Giggle (also ™ , thanks ever so much) had been a fairly regular occurrence.

What Greg found particularly adorable this evening was Mycroft’s unprecedented tendency to totally lose his focus and wander off like an exceptionally tall, hyperintelligent toddler. Actually, several times at first he’d found it bloody annoying to think he’d been talking to Mycroft -- only to discover that the great tosser had meandered off into another room, just like his damn baby brother at a crime scene. But then, here in his own slightly sozzled head, Greg decided to adjust his attitude – after all, at least Myc had an excuse for his behavior, and unlike his damn baby brother, wasn’t shouting a litany of insults at him. 

This quickly made the whole thing much lovelier. It was, after all, very easy for Greg to think of Mycroft as being adorable.

_Well, shit._ That was not supposed to be happening, especially not tonight.

Switching on the last of the twee little phony tea lights, Greg arranged their night’s work onto the windowsill. The parents of any neighborhood children were likely to think that some sort of psychopathic killer lived here (_technically not all that far off_, Greg supposed), and any passing children would probably look up into the window and piss themselves with terror.

_Honouring our British heritage, indeed. Didn’t know our “heritage” was this fucking terrifying._

“Think that’s about got it, Myc – what say you?”

He turned around and sighed to realize that, yes, he was addressing an empty kitchen.

_Because of course_, he thought with an eye roll. Of fucking course he was.

~oOo~

_Fascinating._

Mycroft had found himself ensconced by little Marcus (and even the thought of that made him giggle into the otherwise empty sitting room) in his favorite spot on his gratifyingly cushy settee. He felt rather like a toddler who was being given a distraction to keep himself out of trouble, as Welby had pushed a few buttons on Gregory’s mobile and caused a dancing, swirling prism of light and color to appear on the big screen TV. It was, he noticed almost immediately, syncing its movement and patterns to the music coming from Gregory’s playlist.

He realized with a bit of a start that they actually never listened to Gregory’s music. For just the briefest moment, Mycroft wondered why that was. Gregory clearly didn’t have the same musical preferences as his own, but his taste, while varied, was clearly very good; the songs that were playing occasionally seemed somewhat familiar and were almost all rather nice. The visualizer on the television screen was almost hypnotic, and went a long way toward soothing the urge Mycroft had been feeling to prowl around the flat and just observe things. Everything looked different tonight.

_Fascinating._

His settee was even more comfortable than usual, as Mycroft found himself to be uncharacteristically relaxed. This wasn’t anything at all like how he usually sat on his sofa; he couldn’t recall being all curled up like this since he’d been an awkward tumble of adolescent limbs in his favorite reading nook at Mummy and Daddy’s house, ever so many years ago. 

It felt lovely, quite honestly, and it felt…

How on earth _did_ it feel? 

Just more… _feely_, Mycroft supposed. 

With that astonishing thought (which was almost certainly a side effect of the cannabis), he reached over with a fingertip to caress the fuzzy texture of one of the Union Jacks woven into his socks. He’d chosen those in a rather whimsical moment while dressing this evening, recalling fondly when Gregory had given the socks to him this past June (or was it the previous June? Truly, his memory was shockingly bad right now) as a gift for the official observance of the Queen’s birthday.

The flag was soft, and fuzzy. Gregory himself certainly wasn’t fuzzy (he was frequently rumpled and occasionally stubbly, but rarely if ever fuzzy). However, sometimes the feelings Mycroft had for him felt…

How on earth _did_ they feel?

Not fuzzy, not really. These emotions were definitely soft, in their own way, and warm, and comforting in ways that Mycroft had certainly never anticipated feeling because of another human being. Given the choice of having Gregory nearby or having him elsewhere, he’d choose nearby every time. Being with Gregory was more comfortable than the settee, warmer than the socks, and more fun than the shocking acts of destruction they had recently wrought upon a bag full of turnips. Even more fun than the indiscriminate flinging about of Grandmere Vernet’s needlepoint parrot pillow while shrieking a Monty Python routine – and that, indeed, had been a great deal of fun.

Before Gregory, it would never have occurred to him that he was capable of a great deal of fun, or having a best friend. Of course, as a homosexual human male, he had always known that he was capable of finding another man to be devastatingly attractive; hopeless sexual longing was certainly no stranger to him. And if ever another man could be described as “devastatingly attractive,” it would be the man whom he also considered his dearest friend and, to use one of Gregory’s hideously trite phrases, his “partner in crime.”

Hideously trite – whom did Mycroft think he was kidding? When Gregory had first described Mycroft as his “partner” in anything, he’d felt himself blushing like a schoolboy. (And yes, he’d gone home and wanked about the very idea of it for most of the following weekend – but the less said of that, the better.)

It had been right around that time that Mycroft had realized that the longing he felt toward Gregory was so very much more than just sexual. And as they continued to spend time together, he could only continue to feel more and more admiration for this brave, intelligent, compassionate man who called him “best friend.” 

Admiration, of course.

Love?

Mycroft sighed, leaning back into his cushions and closing his eyes. 

Yes, of course love. He had loved Gregory -- been _in love_ with him -- for ages before he’d even realized it. That realization had been surprising, to say the least.

Hopeless longing?

Mycroft felt his face shift into the slightest of smiles. Longing? Absolutely. However, his continued interactions with Gregory were causing him to become increasingly optimistic that it was not, in fact, “hopeless.” (The accountant in his head was waving spreadsheets and squeaking, _“two ‘loves’ and a ‘darlin’ just tonight! It’s a trend!”_) 

These drugs were not conducive to reasonable thought.

The feelings were definitely more “feely” tonight – but perhaps the time would soon be right to talk to this best friend of his about being partners in more than just crime.

As though summoned by the force of Mycroft’s thoughts, Greg was suddenly standing at his side. He didn’t jump; of course he didn’t.

“Look at you here, all curled up like a great lanky cat and smilin’ like the Sphinx.” Mycroft looked lazily up to see those beautiful brown eyes smiling warmly down at him. “Budge up and make room for me, too.”

Clearly, no piece of furniture in that sitting room was of a size that required “budging up” by anyone to make room for two. However, in those first hideous days after Sherrinford and Eurus, they’d fallen into a bit of a habit that they’d never quite fallen out of; when they’d spend time together at Mycroft’s flat, one of them would sit propped up in a corner of the sofa, and the other would stretch out full-length with their feet in their friend’s lap. Of late, especially if one of them had a particularly trying day, the friend who was stretched out would switch the direction in which he was lying and plop his head into the other’s lap. 

“I think I’ll stay put this evening, if it’s all the same to you.” Mycroft rather thought that he’d like to take advantage of how very _feely_ things were feeling tonight by having Gregory’s thick, silky silver hair to play with, and patted his lap to indicate that Gregory should come and lie down. “You’ve been working hard cleaning up after me – don’t deny it – and you could probably use a bit of a rest. And I’m far too comfortable to be unfolding myself from this little spot just now.”

Without a word – just a slight broadening of that wonderful smile – Gregory did as requested, hauling a squashy throw pillow with him to cushion his head against Mycroft’s admittedly rather bony thighs.

Rather like a big cat himself, he stretched luxuriously before relaxing into place on the settee.

“What’s this you’ve got?” Belatedly, Greg realized that Mycroft was holding his mobile – because of course Welby wouldn’t have trusted Myc with his own phone. He suppressed a bit of a chuckle at the thought of what Mycroft might have done with the device from which he frequently ran the entire British Government had he used it while in the decidedly loopy state he’d been in earlier.

They were both on the downhill slope of this evening’s high, and that was definitely for the best. It had certainly been a lot more fun than the disaster it could have been, but Greg was reaching the end of his ability to hold himself together. Tonight especially, he needed to be the friend that Mycroft needed and deserved – certainly not the pervy old bastard who had looked into Mycroft’s lovely, joyful gray eyes earlier tonight and had damn near grabbed him and kissed his laughing mouth, dead parrot notwithstanding.

Thing was, Greg had really been starting to wonder lately. Maybe – _maybe_ – Myc wouldn’t have minded being kissed. There were times, every now and then, when Greg had looked up in the middle of a routine conversation and caught Mycroft looking at him in a way…

In a way that Greg Lestrade hadn’t been looked at in a long time. 

In a way that he damn well liked a lot.

Not that he could reasonably expect to have any secrets from Mycroft, of course. The man made his little brother look like (to use Sherlock’s own favorite term) an idiot in comparison. 

It stood to reason that of bloody _course_ Mycroft had to know that Greg had been mooning over him for months, despite his feeble best efforts to hide the depths of his feelings for this amazing man who’d become so much more than just his best mate.

And all those “best efforts” were absolutely feeble as fuck – he had sappy love songs for mooning over Mycroft all over his playlist, and there was even one, God help him, that he’d imagined (like a pathetic fucking idiot) playing for Myc to confess that he was in love with him. Which of course, the poor bastard had doubtless _observed _already without the help of his maudlin playlist of love songs.

_Oh, Christ._

_Wait._

“That my phone you got there, Myc?” _Way to sound casual, you idiot._

Mycroft had been off in his own world, and startled slightly. “Oh, yes – Welby put on a visualizer app to go with your playlist. I’ve been a bit surprised by your music, Gregory – I don’t know why we haven’t listened to it more often. It’s quite lovely, really.”

Greg gently pulled his phone from Mycroft’s relaxed grasp, peering down at the screen for a moment before stealthily (he hoped) clicking to a couple songs further down the list. There really was a limit to how much he was going to be able to hold himself together this evening, and he’d just about reached it. If he was going to have to hear the “really, let’s just be friends” speech from Myc with any hope of not bursting into tears like a goddamn teenager, Greg was going to have to wait until he was entirely sober.

Having scrolled past the worst of his “danger zone” music, Greg lowered himself back onto Mycroft’s lap and just listened quietly for a long, lazy while as his lovely, sappy music played on. Now, Frank Sinatra was singing to them both about how lovely they were evidently looking tonight.

That would be all right, he thought. He could keep his mind away from what he wanted and appreciate what he had.

Probably.

Then there were slender, gentle fingers carding through his hair… and all bets were off again. Greg tried not to tense up, and tried even harder to force his unruly emotions back into “best mate” territory. He himself certainly wasn’t anything like as high as he had been, but there was no telling when Mycroft was going to be back to his normal self again. Taking advantage of Myc’s compromised state and pushing up into those lovely fingers like a touch-starved street cat was simply _not on_.

He’d been so caught up in his own internal drama that he hadn’t even noticed that the wonderful hair stroking had slowed, then stopped entirely. Greg looked up to see if Mycroft had fallen asleep – but no. Instead, he was looking down at Greg with a mixture of confusion and what seemed to be growing distress.

“Myc? What’s the matter – are you feeling all right?” Greg sat up, placing a hand on Myc’s shoulder, noting with concern that all the laid-back relaxation was absolutely gone.

“Gregory.” Mycroft started, and then stopped again, looking at his own hand as though it had insulted them. “I’m… I’m dreadfully sorry if I made you uncomfortable just now. I had no intention of…”

“What? You haven’t done anything wrong, darlin’ – you couldn’t possibly make me uncomfortable!” Now Greg was feeling like a war criminal for upsetting his lovely Mycroft. “It was wonderful – truly it was. I was just… just lost in me own empty noggin there for just a bit.”

Mycroft looked at him suspiciously. “Did you know, then, that whatever was in your ‘empty noggin’ – and seriously, spare me the ‘I’m just an East End lad, don’t mind me, guv’ talk, I know better – did you know that whatever you’d been thinking…”

He lifted one fingertip up to touch Greg’s cheek. Suddenly, without even looking down, Greg knew that Myc’s finger had come away wet. 

Humiliated, Greg reached up with both hands to roughly wipe away the foolish tears he’d evidently been shedding without even realizing. He kept his face in his hands afterward, not brave enough just yet to look up to see what the world’s most observant man had deduced from his latest nonsensical display.

“Christ, Mycroft,” he said to the floor from behind his palms, “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m just in a right state tonight, I suppose, and those damn brownies didn’t do me any favors. But you didn’t do anything, I swear you didn’t.” Greg sat up straighter, rolled his shoulders, and tried for a normal smile as he pushed himself to his feet.

“I think I’m for bed, mate.” He stretched, successfully popping his back just the tiniest bit. “I’ll need a shower first, though, I s’pose – I feel like I’ve got prawn crisps oozing out my pores. So I’ll –”

“Gregory.” 

That wasn’t “Stoned Mycroft” voice, not at all. That voice had frozen far more powerful men than Greg Lestrade in their tracks.

“Gregory, look at me.”

And oh, there it was. That was the voice that Greg thought of as being just for him; he’d do anything Mycroft ever asked when he used that voice. So of course, Greg looked at him.

_Dear God, don’t let me cry again._

“Gregory. You’ve been… different this evening, and I know that it can’t have been entirely due to the influence of our unwitting intoxication.” 

Now Mycroft unfolded himself from the sofa to stand closer _(oh God, so much too close)_ to Greg. “And now – now you’re clearly upset, and I have no idea why. You tell me that I’ve done nothing to cause it, but I can’t think of anything else that could have distressed you. For all that we’ve been the victims of a cruel and stupid prank, I can’t help thinking that we’ve had rather a lovely evening – so I’m feeling a bit lost just now.”

Mutely, Greg nodded. He was also feeling a bit lost, but he most certainly didn’t have the words for it.

“Gregory?”

Another nod.

“Gregory, if I ask you one question – one question only – would you be willing to answer it?”

Christ, he owed Mycroft that much.

Another nod.

Mycroft’s expression seemed to be at war with itself – half satisfaction, and half dread. “Gregory, a while ago, when I had your mobile – you seemed concerned that I had it.” He paused, looking searchingly into those guarded brown eyes.

“Not a question, Mycroft.”

“Quite right,” he replied, fighting back the tiniest bit of annoyance. It was utterly unlike Gregory not to be forthcoming with him under any circumstances – what on earth was he unwilling to say now?

“After you took back possession of your phone, you skipped at least one song on your playlist before returning it to the end table. Why would you have done that?”

Mycroft immediately regretted his words, as his Gregory’s lovely face crumpled in a way that he’d only rarely seen. Not for worlds would he have caused this obvious pain, and now Mycroft felt frozen in place even as he ached to reach forward and embrace Gregory, to comfort him.

“Mycroft, as usual, you’ve put your finger on the very heart of the matter.” Greg crossed the room, leaning against the mantle – hoping against hope that at least a bit of physical distance might make this somewhat easier.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m sure you already know that my feelings for you have… have grown, I suppose. It’s not that you’re not my best mate anymore – I hope you’ll always be that, even after…”

_Damn it. God damn it._

Wiping his face with a shirtsleeve, he started again. “I skipped Track 12. In my idiotic, pathetic, romantic fantasies, it’s how I always imagined telling you how I felt about you. And of course you already know – you know everything, all the time – and I feel as stupid as Sherlock thinks I am. But still, I couldn’t listen to it while I sat right next to you and pretend... pretend it didn’t matter.”

“Gregory?” Myc took two steps toward him before Greg raised a warning hand. He looked absolutely _devastated_, and Mycroft froze immediately, feeling as though he might vomit from the sheer anguish of having been the cause of it.

“Myc, you asked your question. I answered. I… I just can’t anymore, not tonight. Like I said, I need a shower, and then bed – if you still need to talk about this in the morning, we’ll talk then. Just not now.”

Greg turned quickly, fleeing silently down the corridor. Mycroft could hear the door to the guest room (which had long since stopped being anything but Gregory’s room) close quietly, and the shower beginning to run not long after.

Not since he was a spotty teenager had Mycroft Holmes felt so utterly at a loss; he, who routinely dealt with global crises with relative ease, had no idea how to move forward. 

Then… there, on the table – Gregory had left his mobile behind. 

If he were a better man, he would plug it in to charge, and then leave it be. 

But as it turned out, he was not a better man. Picking up the mobile from where had been forgotten, Mycroft restored the screen with the playlist that had been the soundtrack to the earlier part of the evening.

Track 12.


	6. Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude at 221B Baker Street, earlier that evening...
> 
> Oh, Hopkins. You are about to be so, so very sorry.
> 
> And as it turns out, Sherlock is a fiercely loyal friend and brother. Who knew?

**Chapter 6 – Meanwhile**

**Wherein Hopkins makes a fatal error, and we meet the Murder Hedgehog**

“Remind me again why I shouldn’t sedate her. I have access to a goddamn pharmacy, and nobody would be any the wiser.” John’s voice was barely above a whisper as he came down the last of the stairs, smiling wryly and rubbing his temples.

Sherlock looked up from his newspaper, granting John an answering smile. “I’ve always said that professional ethics are worse than useless – now you see why.” 

“It’s those damnable second molars, poor duck – they’re causing her all kinds of trouble, and she just can’t get to sleep. I just wish that she would figure out that shrieking and kicking me for 45 minutes straight doesn’t really make her poor little teefers feel any better.” 

John was making his way into the kitchen, but stopped when he saw what was clearly not only _a_ freshly-brewed cup of tea, but _his _freshly-brewed cup of tea waiting for him on the table. 

_And oh, there it was_ – Sherlock had wondered if a cup of tea would get him The Smile ™ from John, and there it was.

“Oh, ta ever so much, sweetheart.” Taking a sip, John closed his eyes and inhaled a bit of the steam as though he’d ingested the very nectar of the gods; Sherlock felt about ten feet tall. “You’ve saved my life – or at the very least, given me something lovely to take some paracetamol with.”

“Another headache coming on?” Sherlock was occasionally willing to ask idiotic questions to which he clearly knew the answer in the interest of advancing a conversation. John had taught him a great deal about social customs over the years, and he was nothing if not a quick learner. “Instead of the paracetamol, why don’t you –“

He broke off with a quick beckoning motion of his head as he put down the newspaper and held up both hands, fingers flexing slightly in a clear invitation for him to provide one of John’s beloved head massages. In preparation for what would obviously be John’s affirmative response, Sherlock shifted himself into the corner of the sofa to make room for John to stretch out with his head in his sweetheart’s lap…

_…that **absolutely cannot** be the door; not at this time of evening on a Friday. People don’t come on Friday nights with cases, and Mycroft is out for his little “it is most definitely NOT a date, brother” with Gavin. There’s no reason for anyone to be at the door._

But then came another muffled hammering noise from downstairs, and Sherlock was up and flying down the stairs at a rate of speed that could only be fueled by extreme outrage – and by the thought of a sleeping baby who must under no circumstances be awakened. 

He hadn’t even bothered to look at who was standing there before beginning his excoriations in an utterly vicious whisper. “If you continue with that idiotic banging and wake Watson, I will personally…”

_Oh, that was rather unexpected._

“Hopkins? Why are you here? I know for a certainty there’s not a case on, so…”

“Sherlock. Mate.” Hopkins’ voice held a mixture of faux ingratiation and very real terror, and Sherlock was intrigued and repulsed at the same time. “I’ve… I’ve got meself into a bit of a muck, y’see, and I was thinkin’, you understand havin’ a bit o’ good fun, and you’d be able to help me…”

Sherlock looked at the cowering sergeant as though he were a marginally interesting species of lizard. “You may come upstairs, under the following circumstances. First and foremost – you do NOT speak above a whisper. Not ever, not once. Second – you have eight minutes from the moment you cross our threshold to state your case and ask for whatever assistance you think I’ll be able or willing to provide. Third – after those eight minutes have elapsed, you are gone, never to return.” 

Hopkins had gone pale, but was still listening motionlessly – it was clear that he had no idea what kind of response the detective might require, but he certainly didn’t want to inadvertently give the wrong one.

“Is that clear, Hopkins?” At Hopkins’ silent but frantic nod, Sherlock turned and headed back up the stairs, with the clear assumption that he would be followed.

“Oi, Sherlock, what was the fuss about down…?” John stopped, looking more annoyed than confused. For reasons that weren’t entirely clear to Sherlock, John held Hopkins in rather a lot of contempt – and he was making no effort whatever to hide that this evening. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Taking Sherlock at his word, Hopkins rattled on as quickly as he could as he told his tale of woe that both began and ended with the whining complaint, “It was just a _joke_.”

To his dismay, Sergeant Hopkins was beginning to suspect that his audience did not share his sense of humour.

John drew a breath to speak, but stopped when Sherlock gave him a significant look. “John, would you mind terribly fixing the two of us another cuppa? Hopkins has –” he stopped to look at his watch - “approximately three minutes to give me a rationale for giving him my help, and frankly, if you keep glowering at him like that you’re only going to make your headache worse.” 

“Also,” he continued oh, so casually, “I haven’t heard from Anthea today. You might want to check in with her and see how her day has gone. I know that always cheers you up.” Stanley Hopkins had not one idea what Holmes was on about, but it was obvious that Watson had definitely cheered up at that last suggestion. He’d looked downright perky as he left the room.

“Now that John’s left the room, perhaps you’ll be willing to be more forthright with me.” Sherlock looked serious in a way that made the young copper think he might well shit himself before the next three minutes had passed. “Because this is at least the fourth ‘jolly jape’ to which you have subjected your supervisor or his team. You clearly have a great deal of resentment for DI Lestrade – now that we’re alone, I do hope you’ll tell me why.” He looked at his wristwatch again. “Since I’m asking questions, I’ll even add five additional minutes to your remaining time. Same conditions, though --- you whisper, and when we’re finished, you leave.”

Hopkins nodded miserably. He wasn’t a bloody genius, but even he had figured out that this night wasn’t going to end well for him. “I… if you’d rather not help, I can leave now…”

“Oh, gracious, perish the thought!” Holmes’ tone was even more posh than usual – and downright terrifying. “This is a full-fledged mystery, and I’ll never rest tonight until I get to the bottom of it.” Hopkins was looking rather as though he might bolt anyway, and Sherlock continued, “Unless you’d like me to call Sally Donovan? Even if she has plans tonight, I’ve no doubt she’d love to come and spend some time with you – especially since it can’t have escaped your notice that you’ve seemed to, well, rather break quite a few laws today in the name of humour.”

“Please, no. Don’t call Donovan.” Hopkins’ voice told Sherlock all he needed to know about that – no doubt Sally wouldn’t be too terribly far behind. Unlike her idiot colleague, _she _was good at her job, and knew how to follow a trail; she would certainly be figuring out before long that Hopkins would drag his pathetic carcass here to plead for help.

It was really rather insulting, come to think of it, that he considered Sherlock to be enough of a heartless dick to help someone who was mercilessly bullying a colleague and friend and passing it off as “fun.” It was possibly even more insulting that Hopkins thought somehow Sherlock was someone to be trusted by the likes of _him_.

He was beginning to pick up on why John loathed him. Good judge of character, John.

“But I’m sorry. I interrupted you.” Sherlock, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, sat down in his chair, gesturing to the empty sofa for Hopkins to be seated. “You haven’t told me about what DI Lestrade has done to deserve the damage that his career has suffered each of the times he’s been called to account by his superiors due to your little jokes – each time, I might add, damage that he incurred while still managing to keep you in your position and not demoted or dismissed.”

The detective leaned forward, as though the answer might actually be of interest to him. “I hate it when there’s something I miss in my deductions – what has Lestrade done to you?”

The ensuing silence seemed to drag on much longer than the few seconds it took. Hopkins looked like a sullen schoolboy as he answered. “You know as well as I do he hasn’t done anything.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, waiting for the rest, and… _there_.

“He took it though, didn’t he?” Somehow Hopkins was angry about this, and grew angrier as he went on. “Didn’t matter what kind of crap I pulled, he’d take me aside like he was me bleedin’ _dad _or something and say he_ expected better from me_, and he _hoped I’d learn a valuable lesson_, and just the same fucking nonsense every single time.”

Sherlock rubbed his temples, in much the same way that John had done not so very long ago. Perhaps there was going to have to be some paracetamol for both of them tonight.

“Hopkins, if I were a better man, I’d have some sympathy for you. As it stands, I do have some empathy, as I do know what it’s like to be on the other side of one of Lestrade’s paternal lectures.” He huffed out an impatient breath, rising gracefully to his feet and pacing around the room. “Would you like to know under what circumstances I received my first?”

Obviously, Hopkins knew that he was going to be finding out whether he cared to or not, so he simply nodded. 

“It was not the first time I’d overdosed – oh, that’s why you thought I’d be sympathetic to you using illicit drugs, isn’t it? – but yes, I’d overdosed, and Lestrade found me unconscious and propped up against a skip not too far from his flat. Who knows? Maybe I’d been on my way to see him when the drugs finally kicked in – I’d already helped him with a few cases, because he was the only one at a murder scene one day who’d bothered to listen to a scrawny little junkie frantically pointing out clues about blood spatter and what kind of weapon had been used. I’d rather taken a liking to him; he wasn’t quite as painfully stupid as the others.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing to glance down at the mobile that had just buzzed in his pocket. He gave it just the barest smile before looking back at the glazed expression of a man who had clearly begun to accept his fate.

“But he gave me the first lecture – there were others, to be sure, but that was the first -- after I woke up in hospital. He told me I was better than that, and that my brain deserved better treatment than the poison I’d just pumped into it. That he’d take me on as a consultant, but only as long as I could prove I was clean.”

The pacing resumed, with Sherlock managing to communicate in the quietest of tones as he walked back and forth. “Saved _my_ career, too, as it happens. I’d have had a devil of a time being a Consulting Detective without anyone willing to consult with me.”

Hopkins visibly shuddered as eyes who saw everything – _every goddamn thing_ – looked down at him. 

“You resent him because he’s a better dad than the one you got?” Those eyes were filled with disdain. “Well, isn’t that a pity. Because I’ll tell you something. Gregory Lestrade is a better father figure – a better boss, a better mentor, a better _man_ – than any of us are likely to have had, or ever to be ourselves. And if you’ve got him in your life, then you’d be wise to be grateful for it, and not to act like a cross between a schoolyard bully and a whinging little weasel.”

Holmes shook his head in what was clearly complete contempt. “You turn my stomach.”

Looking nervously down at his watch, Hopkins stood. “I’ll be gone, then,” he squeaked.

Holmes’ pacing had placed him between Sergeant Hopkins and the doorway. “Really, you won’t, not yet.” That posh, velvety voice never went above a murmur, but still managed to sound like a bomb going off in the silence. “Because you haven’t heard about the rest of what you’ve done, and ohhhh, you've really rather stepped in it, as they say.”

_Oh, fuck,_ Hopkins thought. Whatever this was, it was so much worse than he knew how to imagine. 

Suddenly, shitting himself seemed like a far lesser evil than what was going to befall him. 

“Would you like to know who happened to be with DI Lestrade when he was the unlucky victim of your idiotic prank?”

No. He really, _really_ did not.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of my elder brother, Mycroft.”

Hopkins gulped. “You mean the right scary one who pulls up at a crime scene in the swanky car and everyone…”

Sherlock nodded. “I have no other brother, so yes. That one.” 

Very unwisely, the sergeant tried to sidle past the detective, whose hand shot out to grab a sweaty wrist and make it very, very plain indeed that Hopkins wasn’t going anywhere. And in case that point had somehow evaded him, it was quickly reinforced by an exceptionally determined Captain John Watson, lately of Her Majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to block the doorway. He said nothing, but had a truly terrifying look on his face that clearly expressed his absolute _longing_ to use that awful cliché of breaking every bone in Hopkins’ body while naming them. 

Holmes gave Watson the oddest fond smile at that moment, but that was the least of anyone’s concerns just then.

“You haven’t let me finish yet, Sergeant Hopkins, so you can’t _possibly_ leave us yet.”

Sherlock released his grip, but Watson moved not one muscle as he stood in front of the door looking absolutely _lethal_ – and Hopkins didn’t know how the hell he’d ever managed to overlook _that_. He’d always thought of the doc as a reasonably harmless little bloke who was patient with Holmes and good with a pistol. Turned out to be a bloody _grenade_ – just tiny to look at, but very clearly the most dangerous thing in the room.

Holmes was still talking – of bloody _course _he was.

“There are three men on Earth, Sergeant, whom I can count on to care if I live or die, and to try to keep me safe from harm -- sometimes in spite of myself -- regardless of risk to themselves. One of those three you see before you –” he broke off to nod to Dr. Watson, who never once stopped glaring at Hopkins while giving the briefest nod to Holmes in return. “The other two are currently in my brother’s home, recovering from having been drugged by a criminal hiding behind a police badge.”

“Your… your…” Hopkins' whisper was barely even that; it could just as easily have been a squeak from the door hinge.

“_Brother,_ I believe, is the word you seek, Sergeant. So once again, you're exactly right; full points to you. You, with your idiotic notions of bullying as a way to assert your contemptible ideas of being Alpha Male somewhere, have incapacitated a senior officer of New Scotland Yard, as well as one of the more powerful government officials in not only our nation, but many others. Your actions could well have cost either of them their careers had they acted in an untoward way after having ingested your drugs.”

He took a step forward, looking very much as though he’d have liked to shove Hopkins into a wall. “Drugs! You’re supposedly a police officer – how do you not understand this? Lestrade could have been driving home under impairment without realizing it – who knows what might have happened? And my brother? I shudder to think of some of the scenarios that could have played out. Fortunately for you, Lestrade was obviously far ahead enough of your little game to get them both out of harm’s way before the drug could take effect. Mycroft's assistant reported to me a couple of moments ago that neither of them will be any the worse for wear, no thanks to you.”

He shook his head with a show of bemusement, though there was no hint of such bemusement in his voice; he was clearly, coldly, furious. 

“That you think that I would not only tolerate this attack on two men who have time and again earned my love and respect – but that I would _help_ you? God, you’re more of an idiot than even I thought you were. No, Hopkins. Help is the very last thing you’ll be getting from me.”

With astonishingly good timing, just as Sherlock stopped speaking, there was the sound of multiple car doors opening and closing outside, and multiple footsteps coming (miraculously quietly) across the pavement, through the door and up the stairs. Only then did the little grenade see fit to remove himself from the doorway, opening the door to an unexpectedly elegant young lady – certainly not the coppers or government goons Hopkins had imagined would be outside.

“Oh! All right, Anthea?”

_Oh, fuck. _ There was fucking Sally Donovan, coming right up the steps behind her.

“Sergeant.” The first woman looked surprised but not at all unhappy to see her. “I applaud your detective work – had Dr. Watson not informed me of the presence of…” She seemed to be at a loss as to what to call Hopkins.

“Let’s go with ‘perpetrator’ for now, shall we?” Sally was looking a lot more enthusiastic than Hopkins might have hoped.

“Quite. The perpetrator. At any rate, I hope it won’t be an inconvenience to you if I…”

Donovan looked downright _chuffed_. “No inconvenience at all, Miss McMillan. I’d imagine that what this fuckmuppet has done was potentially far more dangerous at your level than it would have been at ours – and frankly, it’s a right embarrassment to have to drag a colleague –“ she stopped, correcting herself, “rather, a _former_ colleague, into lockup.”

“Very well, then – if you’ll permit me…” Anthea swiftly typed into her mobile, and two of the most enormous men Hopkins had ever seen appeared as if out of thin air, and were at the top of the stairs without a sound before he could register that they were even there.

“We’ll take it from here, Miss McMillan,” one of them said. “Standard procedure?”

Anthea’s smile was somewhat enigmatic. “Oh, I’d say _enhanced_ procedure for this gentleman, Mr. Mason.”

And then, just as suddenly and silently, the two enormous men were gone – and Stanley Hopkins was gone as well.

With another Mona Lisa smile, Anthea nodded to Sherlock and John as they closed the door behind them.

Sherlock couldn’t resist standing near the door to hear what happened next – and although the words themselves weren’t clearly intelligible, it seemed reasonably clear that the two ladies were going to take the opportunity to celebrate the triumph of justice over evil with a drink or two.

He had to smirk about that – a smirk which broke into a full-fledged chuckle when he heard Sally as she departed.

“Christ, what is that _smell_? Oh lord, tell me he didn’t shit himself on the way down the stairs.”

~oOo~

John had settled onto the sofa, looking a bit deflated. “Well, if nothing else, that was something to take my mind off the headache – it might be a bit better.”

Sherlock sat down beside him. “That doesn’t take your massage right off the table – I’m always glad to oblige, headache or not.” 

The smile he got in return was positively glowing. “Oh, I know that, love. But I’m more interested right now in having you tell me what that smile was about earlier – back when we were keeping that arsehole Hopkins from doing a scarper. Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

Of course he saw it. Sometimes Sherlock forgot that until the two of them got together, John Watson had very often been the most observant man in the room.

“Ah, yes. That.” 

He reached over with one long arm to pull his doctor close against him. “I only wish you could have seen yourself looking at Hopkins. And oh, my – you could actually _see_ the very moment when that idiot realized how utterly he had underestimated you. There was that one instant when he saw not what you show the world, but what you actually _are_. It could’ve been funny if it weren’t so incredibly gorgeous – there you were, an absolute human land mine, and him with the idea of a harmless Dr. John Watson in a sensible jumper just _exploding _in shards in his brain.”

“And you enjoyed that, did you?”

“You know I did. You know I always do.”

John snuggled in closer, pulling Sherlock’s arm more tightly around him by bringing those long fingers up for a brief kiss. “I’m not going to be able to stop you from saying it, am I.” It wasn’t even a question, so John didn’t waste his time with putting a question mark at the end.

“Of course you’re not.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss the top of John’s head before whispering in his ear, “I love it when you’re my little murder hedgehog.”

Despite himself, John giggled. “And I’m supposed to want to fuck you after you’ve compared me to a tiny woodland creature?”

“A tiny, _murderous _woodland creature, John! You’re missing the point.” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows hopefully. “And… yes? To the wanting to fuck me?”

John sighed resignedly before reaching up to give Sherlock a brief but absolutely searing kiss. “Yeah, I suppose I do. I’m a hopelessly romantic tiny murderous woodland creature, when it comes to it – and I just can’t resist you.”

There were moments when Sherlock had no idea how he'd ever got this lucky – and this was one of those moments, for sure. “If you’re ready for bed, I’ll be there in just a mo’ – I probably ought to check in on Gavin and Fatcroft before we turn in. God knows what they’ve been up to tonight.”

John shook his head affectionately. Mycroft or Greg weren’t likely to hear too many sincerely complimentary words from Sherlock, regardless of how he actually felt about them both. So it was just as well, John supposed, that he’d had Anthea turn the audio bug in their sitting room back on for just that little while that Hopkins had been there. He knew for a certainty that Anthea would make sure that both his brother and Lestrade would hear everything that Sherlock had said about them – because they damn well deserved it after all they put up with from him.

“Yeah, you check up on them – I’m just trying to imagine what a night with those two on marijuana must have looked like. Evidently, they ate a Colin cake between 'em and made jack o’ lanterns with turnips and a power drill..?”

Then, with a reprise of that quick but infinitely promising kiss, the Murder Hedgehog took himself off to bed.


	7. All True Love Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you just need a chance. Other times, a bit of a shove isn’t a bad idea. 
> 
> And isn’t it rather lovely when you have a bratty little brother who doesn’t mind giving you both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things, before we begin.
> 
> First, if you think you're going to come into these parts and chide me about OOC Sherlock, then take your sour cream and chides elsewhere -- because dammit, he's fictional, and if I want to make him a reluctantly lovely brother, I shall.
> 
> Also, before you go on, do take a moment to listen to the link to our mysterious Track 12, because Stevie Wonder's "Overjoyed" is truly lovely and will put you in the mood rather nicely (I hope).

**Chapter 7 – All True Love Needs**

**A Brief Chapter, in Which there is a Musical Interlude, and the World’s Unlikeliest Relationship Coach**

Mycroft had honestly lost track of how many times now he’d listened to [the song](https://youtu.be/_a1LogyX9Uw). At first, he’d been too nervous to imagine what message it might convey to even hear it with any degree of focus; instead, he’d found the whole experience too overwhelming to process in its entirety.

Indeed, it started rather unexpectedly. Along with a fairly standard synthesizer in the background (_fairly characteristic of music from the mid-1980s,_ a detached narrator in his brain helpfully provided), there were – were those birds? Yes, and what sounded like perhaps a pebble being dropped into still water, and ocean waves, and…

No. Too much input right now. Go back.

And so he stepped into the song, experiencing it a little at a time before his somewhat oversensitised brain was able to absorb all of the background sounds along with a crisp, clear acoustic guitar and a lush string section that washed in with the first of the lyrics.

The lyrics. These lyrics that Gregory had somehow associated with Mycroft. For his feelings _about _Mycroft.

Dear God, someone had feelings. For Mycroft Holmes.

No. Too much. Stop the music. Go back.

And then he would begin again, incrementally absorbing as much as he could before having to stop… and begin again.

Finally –_ finally_ – he was able to sit back and breathe without hyperventilating, and just listen.

_Dear God._

Over time, I've been building my castle of love  
Just for two, though you never knew you were my reason  
I've gone much too far for you now to say  
That I've got to throw my castle away

Over dreams, I have picked out a perfect come true  
Though you never knew it was of you I've been dreaming  
The sandman has come from too far away  
For you to say come back some other day

And though you don't believe that they do  
They do come true  
For did my dreams  
Come true when I looked at you  
And maybe too, if you would believe  
You too might be  
Overjoyed, over loved, over me

Over hearts, I have painfully turned every stone  
Just to find, I had found what I've searched to discover  
I've come much too far for me now to find  
The love that I've sought can never be mine

And though you don't believe that they do  
They do come true  
For did my dreams  
Come true when I looked at you  
And maybe too, if you would believe  
You too might be  
Overjoyed, over loved, over me

And though the odds say improbable  
What do they know  
For in romance  
All true love needs is a chance  
And maybe with a chance you will find  
You too like I  
Overjoyed, over loved, over you,  
Over you

When he had time to consider it later, Mycroft reckoned that he had never felt such strong emotions in his life without one of those being abject terror. As it was, he’d found himself absolutely frozen in place – and had probably listened to the song at least another six times without realizing that he had continued to hit “repeat” again and again. 

It was utterly incomprehensible that anyone should feel that way about Mycroft Holmes – much less beautiful, brave, funny, tender Gregory Lestrade, who could win the heart of anyone. Anyone.

Gregory was.. overjoyed? By Mycroft Holmes?

At this point, Mycroft knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be greeting this news with some degree of joy himself – but so far, he had only managed to make it as far as overwhelmed. 

Because what on earth was he going to do with this information now that he had it? God only knew that emotional declarations were certainly not his strong suit; it was all he could do to manage an “I love you” (muttered _sotto voce_, and under _extreme_ duress) to Mummy and Daddy on his way out the door after yet another strained Christmas dinner.

Unfortunately, the only person who could have helped him answer this question was currently down the hall in the guest room – and Mycroft suddenly fervently hoped that Gregory had managed to sleep through what might arguably have been the most disjointed playing of Stevie Wonder’s “Overjoyed” in human history.

He startled so violently that he nearly fell off the settee as Gregory’s mobile buzzed in his hand. 

Of course, he shouldn’t be reading Gregory’s incoming texts, but it was impossible not to considering the circumstances.

** _Oh, for God’s sake, tell him already. SH_ **

Mycroft gaped uncomprehendingly at the screen – but then saw the tiny moving cursor that told him that Sherlock was typing again.

** _You think I don’t know what’s happened. But that fuckmuppet (that’s Donovan’s word, but I’m appropriating it) Hopkins showed up here thinking I’d help him. Long story short, I didn’t. Mycroft’s little friends have him now. SH_ **

_Oh, well done, Brother._ Mycroft felt his face break into just a bit of a smile – it was truly gratifying to know that Sherlock had Gregory’s back in this instance.

** _And you’re welcome, by the way. You owe me. But now I’m imagining you both coming down off of your scandalous marijuana intoxication, and I don’t want to think of that any longer than I must. SH_ **

Mycroft wasn’t really sure what he should do; if he tried to text back impersonating Gregory, then that could be problematic – but he was truly curious as to what his obnoxious little brother seemed to think was going on. 

Before he could decide how to proceed, he was spared the effort:

** _Mycroft is somewhere in his sitting room feeling vaguely amazed that he’s actually capable of being physically comfortable. Perhaps, god forbid, he’s even removed his waistcoat. Meanwhile, you. Ugh. You are draped despairingly over a piece of furniture somewhere, and you’ve convinced yourself that you are somehow unworthy of love. I want to vomit SH_ **

Mycroft could only stare at Gregory’s mobile as though it had somehow turned into an oracle.

** _You know what your problem is? You think he already KNOWS. He’s managed to convince you that he knows everything, all the time, so you’re certain that he already knows how you feel. How do I even spend time with you? You have the thickest skull! Lestrade. Greg. HE DOES NOT KNOW THAT YOU LOVE HIM. Christ, how is this my life that I’m saying this to you now. You might be trying to convince yourself you don’t deserve love – you IDIOT. My wretched brother has never believed that he deserved love – or that ANYONE does, ever. It’s how we were raised. It should be criminal SH_ **

Mycroft’s fingers were moving before he realized – and he decided that he wasn’t going to stop them. 

**Why are you telling me this**

And now the pause for the cursor was even longer.

** _Oh, now it finally gets interesting! Why, hello, brother! SH_ **

Because of course he knew, the insufferable little blighter.

**Sherlock.**

** _Oh, dear, you have the mobile – so has he disappeared into his den of despair so soon? What on earth have you done to him? SH_ **

**I haven’t done anything. Nothing.**

There was a truly disconcerting delay – had Sherlock stopped typing? 

And honestly, why wasn’t Mycroft _glad_ about this?

** _Oh, brother mine. This might actually be the death of you, but now you’re going to have to go to him. He’s still there, isn’t he? SH_ **

**Yes. He’s gone to bed.**

** _Very well. But don’t use that as an excuse. He’s not like us, Mycroft. He’s suffering over this. If you return his feelings – which you do, OBVIOUSLY – you’re going to have to tell him SH_ **

This had to be the most surreal experience that he’d ever had in his life, with or without any kind of medical interference. He was receiving _romantic advice_ from his insane little brother – and he was perched on the end of his sofa cushion like a bizarre version of a Jane Austen heroine, breathlessly awaiting _more_. 

Mycroft was very likely going to experience some degree of PTSD after this episode.

He began to type again:

**I’ll tell him in the morning.**

Just as he’d hit “send,” another message came across simultaneously.

** _You can’t wait until morning. You’ll lose your nerve, or he’ll find a way to sneak out, and god only knows what kind of hash the two of you will make of it then. Now. It has to happen now. And don’t you dare ask me what you should say or do, because if I think about it I won’t be able to achieve an erection for possibly the rest of my life SH_ **

This was all, unfortunately, true. (Probably not about Sherlock and an erection, but that was honestly the last thing he wanted to think about right now.) 

**Sherlock?**

** _Oh, Christ, what SH_ **

Honestly, this night had already shattered whatever limit Mycroft had believed himself to have to be able to experience emotion.

**Why are you telling me this?**

Time seemed to crawl to a stop before the cursor moved again. Mycroft heard himself exhale loudly -- when had he stopped his normal breathing? Truly, he hardly knew himself tonight.

** _If you must know – it’s clear to both of us that Lestrade is a good man. As revolting as this is to have to say, so, against all odds, are you. For your own incomprehensible reasons, you seem to want to be together – and it’s become exhausting watching you both circling one another. So if the two of you are going to be nauseating anyway, you’d might as well be happy. It’ll keep you occupied, and less likely to bother me SH_ **

Mycroft sniffed loudly before he actively realized that he’d begun to cry.

**I love you, brother mine.**

** _Ugh. Go tell him that, because he actually wants to hear it. I have to go vomit now SH_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment? And the Holmes boys? Whatever would Mummy say?
> 
> Well, Mycroft -- faint heart never won fair maiden, so you'll have to do something to fix this situation.


	8. Fuck O'Clock in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a great deal of introspection on the part of one Mr. Mycroft Holmes -- who does, in fact, wear bespoke pyjamas.
> 
> But not tonight, he doesn't. (Now, behave. Our boy Mycroft remains fully clothed throughout the proceedings except for during his shower. You'll have to wait until the next chapter before he Does Naughty Things.)
> 
> In the meantime, however, there are lots of snuggles. Dear lord, SO many snuggles.

As he turned on his shower, Mycroft definitely understood what Gregory had meant earlier when he said he’d felt as though he had prawn crisps oozing out his pores. Truly, they had eaten such a bizarre array of snack foods that he felt somewhat disgusting, and knew his own system would be regretting it for days to come. It was going to be a relief to wash some of the feeling of it off of his body, as it already had been to (very thoroughly) clean his teeth. His mouth had already begun to taste as though the various substances he’d consumed tonight had combined and were getting ready to stage a rebellion, and the aftertaste of toothpaste was vastly to be preferred.

As it was, he was well aware that his situation could have been a great deal worse. Fortunately, Gregory had stopped him from eating quite as much (or quite as many different combinations of foods) as he’d have liked, reminding him that one side effect of marijuana was to temporarily suppress the reflex that let him know he’d eaten his fill. 

Mycroft had thought rather indignantly at the time that Gregory was being a killjoy – if for no other reason than that the idea of marooning Jelly Babies on ice cubes at the top of a glass of Cherry Vimto had seemed like an absolutely thrilling experiment to undertake at the time.

(It still did, a bit, if he were to be quite honest.)

Either way, though, Gregory’s caution (and his confiscation of the Jelly Babies) had likely saved Mycroft a great deal of regret and discomfort when the last of the effects of the brownies had worn off – which they seemed fairly close to doing by this point.

Considering all of the truly bizarre experiences of the past few hours, Mycroft thought he could be forgiven for feeling as though he’d wandered into a surrealist version of his own life – but he could, indeed, begin to feel some of his accustomed mental acuity returning to him, as well as more of his physical coordination.

What had decidedly remained with him was every word and nuance of the unprecedented text exchange he’d had with Sherlock… was it 20 minutes ago? That seemed about right, as that was roughly the amount of time it had taken for Mycroft to unfreeze himself from his shocked stasis in the sitting room and start actually moving again.

Sherlock had, for once, been completely in the right, and it was going to be one hundred percent Mycroft’s responsibility to clear up the uncomfortable situation that had arisen between himself and Gregory. Mycroft had no doubt that Sherlock would see his quick break to see to his own hygiene as the basest of cowardice, and perhaps it was. However, Mycroft had enough self-awareness to realize that if he was to move so completely out of his own comfort zone as to confess his long-concealed romantic feelings to Gregory, he was going to need to be at his absolute best so as not to utterly lose his nerve.

And since Mycroft’s only previous experience with “absolute best” had always involved a meticulously chosen bespoke three-piece suit (certainly not called for in this instance, clearly) he was going to allow himself the small mercy of at least feeling and smelling clean before going to Gregory.

He toweled himself dry, wrapping the slightly damp towel around his hips before going in search of pyjamas. After giving it significantly more thought than he usually did, he decided upon a pair of soft flannel pants in a lovely dark green tartan and a cozy charcoal gray Henley top. Both of these had been Christmas gifts from Gregory, who had a fairly strong opinion on the state of Mycroft’s sleepwear.

“They’d might as well be made by your bloody tailor,” he’d protested, “what with all these ridiculous buttons! You can’t possibly be comfortable in something with no stretch or give whatsoever. There’s just no way.”

Mycroft had argued that his nightwear was in fact very comfortable, and that neither the buttons nor the choice of fabric caused him any trouble whatsoever. He wisely declined to mention that his collection of pyjamas were, in fact, bespoke and constructed by his trusted tailor, Joseph – who also kept him in beautifully-cut dressing gowns, and would probably be absolutely scandalized to see Mr. Holmes in something as _common_ as flannel and knitwear. 

All that said, he had to admit that he was probably a good deal more approachable – not to say more cuddly – in this garb than in the more buttoned-up style to which he was accustomed. And since “cuddly” was likely what he was going for this evening, the choice was clear.

It was a well-aimed toss that sent Mycroft’s used towel across the room and into the laundry basket on the first try; he chose to see that as a good omen before giving his reflection a quick, bracing nod and heading down the hallway to look in on Gregory.

Though he’d heard the guest room door close earlier in the night, it was very slightly ajar now. He hadn’t paid close attention on his way to his own room, so he couldn’t rightly say when Gregory had opened the door again. 

It was, in fact, his normal practice on those nights when he stayed over – a throwback to the days when he’d be listening for Mycroft to be awake in the middle of the night, or to help guide him out of a particularly persistent nightmare. Once he’d become accustomed to it, Gregory had continued to do so just out of habit – and it was a matter of some amazement to Mycroft that he had never resented Gregory treating him as though the DI were his nanny. 

Doubtless there was something to be said for the casual way in which Gregory had always performed this particular service; he never made a fuss about it, not ever. He only brought up bad dreams or other overnight distress when he felt it to be absolutely necessary – and whenever Mycroft protested that Gregory was putting himself to too much trouble, he always had the same reply.

“It’s what friends do, Myc. If it were me in a similar spot, you’d do the same, and you know it.”

The thing of it was, Mycroft did _not_ know it; certainly he’d be willing, but he wasn’t a bit sure he’d know how to even begin such an enterprise. He realized that he was very good indeed at seeing to it that _situations_ \-- both very large and very small -- were sorted, and that people (or groups of people, or governments, or entire nations, come to that) got what they needed in terms of necessary funds, supplies, or services. 

However, that was not at all what Greg provided to him. Gregory dealt with Mycroft and his needs on a purely individual basis – not because he was an important man in general, but because he was clearly important to Gregory in and of himself. 

He, Mycroft Holmes, was clearly important to Gregory Lestrade. Gregory had never for a moment attempted to conceal this. Mycroft could scarcely blame his friend for his mistaken impression that he’d been aware of the full nature of Gregory’s feelings – and could scarcely believe it himself that he had been entirely in the dark for such a long time. 

Casting his thoughts back to a bit earlier in the evening, he had to admit that Sherlock was not wrong; he had been more or less raised to believe that love was _sentiment_, and _common_, and therefore to be avoided. He didn’t need love, or kindness, or friendship, and he shouldn’t be expecting any of those things from anyone… lest he be disappointed.

None of that explained his bone-deep love for his brother, of course, but that was simply an unfortunate circumstance which was to be tolerated and dealt with as necessary.

Friendship, he had learned, was another story.

Of course, Mycroft knew he could count on Anthea to bring an exquisitely brewed cup of tea or perfectly-timed Thai takeaway on evenings when he had been working too long. And while she was certainly intuitive about his needs, she also seemed genuinely to enjoy providing small comforts to him that not only made him more effective, but happier as well. Perhaps she was a friend, or at least on the way to becoming one.

But Gregory… Gregory had not thought twice, even when they could only be described as the most casual of friends, about kicking off his shoes and lying fully-clothed next to Mycroft on top of the covers in those first days after Sherrinford when his mind and his memories became too much for him in the middle of the night. He’d seemed sincerely glad to pull Mycroft into the type of warm, brotherly embrace that he recalled sharing with Sherlock when they were both so much younger and Sherlock would have a bad dream. He was not at all sure how he’d have managed that first week without Gregory’s constant presence and reassurance – both of which had metamorphosed into something far more meaningful and lasting as their friendship had continued and deepened.

Mycroft realized that although he himself was very good at taking care of _situations_, Gregory Lestrade was very, very good at taking care of _him_ – and he always had been. Even tonight, Mycroft could look back and see how Gregory had engineered their unexpected situation so that he did not suffer undue anxiety after the two of them had been drugged. Gregory was so often guiding Mycroft through the uncomfortable bits of human interaction that sometimes felt so foreign to him, without ever making him feel as though he were odd or an outsider. More than once, it had occurred to him that had he had a friend like Gregory during his school days, his youth would have been an order of magnitude less miserable.

He was fairly sure, however, that there wasn’t really such a thing as a friend _like_ Gregory Lestrade – there was only Gregory himself. If Gregory was to be trusted – and he was always, _always_ to be trusted – he was asking Mycroft now if they might become more than just friends. He had laid his heart out on the line tonight, with no expectation of his feelings being reciprocated, just because he could no longer hold back. 

And now, even though Mycroft didn’t really know exactly how he was supposed to take care of this beautiful, caring, giving man, he most certainly knew that he had to try.

~oOo~

Gregory had left one of the lights on in the ensuite bathroom. Mycroft had noticed that he typically did so either on nights when he’d had too much to drink and needed the light for orientation, or when he was somewhat upset and had the light on for comfort. 

_Could have been either of those, or both_, Mycroft surmised. He saw an empty blister-pack of the antihistamines that Gregory occasionally took for his hay fever, or to help him to sleep; though he usually only took one tablet, tonight he’d had two.

He’d been crying in the shower, and he was embarrassed that his eyes were swollen. He took the full dosage to try to help with the swelling, and to make sure he slept. Mycroft felt a painful twist in his chest as he looked from this evidence of Gregory’s distress and over to where the man himself lay sleeping curled in a tight, miserable ball. 

The slightest rumble with his inhalations told Mycroft that Gregory was, indeed, soundly asleep – but he could see that the (likely mostly medication-induced) slumber wasn’t a particularly restful one for him. He was by now very well-accustomed to looking at Gregory’s face when he had fallen asleep on the sofa during a movie or after a too-long day at work; he wasn’t one who as a rule looked somehow magically younger as he rested, but Mycroft usually recognized a certain peacefulness that fell across his handsome features as he settled into repose. Tonight, there was still a paradoxical tension in his forehead and eyebrows; even deeply asleep, he looked serious, and very nearly sad.

For what seemed like a very long time, Mycroft stood next to Gregory’s bedside, contemplating what to do now. He realized that he’d rather supposed that Gregory would awaken upon Mycroft’s entering the room – but since that had not happened, Mycroft felt that it wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly to awaken the poor man and then expect him to carry on what likely would be a highly momentous conversation.

_What would Gregory do in a similar situation?_

The solution came to Mycroft almost immediately, as he moved to the other side of Gregory’s bed and lifted the duvet, shifting ever so gently under the covers to lie next to Greg as he lay curled on his side.

Gregory had done the same for Mycroft on more than one occasion, referring to the position as being the “big spoon.” He couldn’t help smiling just a bit at what most people who had ever met Mycroft Holmes would think of such a thing – and he felt the smile broaden slightly when he realized that while he was amused at the idea of _that_ getting around Whitehall, he couldn’t possibly care less.

Oh, dear – Gregory felt tense even in his sleep, with both arms hanging onto one of the extra pillows on the bed as if for dear life. Mycroft reached across to pull Gregory more thoroughly backwards into his own embrace; he could remember quite vividly how comforted he felt when Greg would do the same thing, speaking quiet words of reassurance.

Surely he could do that as well, could he not? He thought of the words that Gregory used, and how those words made him feel – and suddenly, it was easy.

“I’m right here, darling,” Mycroft murmured quietly. He didn’t have a free arm to stroke Gregory’s hair in the way that he himself found so very calming, so he moved forward just slightly to nuzzle his nose into that lovely, thick hair – still slightly damp, and smelling so invitingly of Mycroft’s own brand of shampoo. “I’m right here, and I’ve got you, my own dear boy. I’ll be here straight on until morning, love, and I won’t let you go. Not ever again, my dearest one. I swear it.” As if to illustrate the truth of his words, Mycroft tightened his arm just a bit, pulling Gregory closer still.

He went on with his soft words of love and reassurance, and felt oddly triumphant as he felt Gregory begin to relax, finally nearly melting back into Mycroft as they nestled together. Mycroft kept talking for as long as he could, until his words sounded like nonsense even to himself and he gently drifted into sleep.

~oOo~

Mycroft had never been a person who eased slowly into wakefulness. Though his body might remain still for some time after he awakened, his mind was back online almost immediately, and each little bit of his brain seemed to turn on and present him with any pertinent data all at once.

Bed: not his; guest room.

Time: still night; probably around 3:40 am. He had been asleep for approximately 2.8 hours, and had likely completed one full sleep cycle.

Gregory: still present, though he had at some point turned in his sleep in Mycroft’s arms so that the two men were facing one another. Gregory’s ankles had intertwined with his own over the past few hours, and his face was nestled most appealingly into Mycroft’s shoulder. He could feel the slow, regular cadence of the other man’s breath puffing warm against his chest, and it was an almost heartrendingly lovely sensation.

He began to feel just a bit of tension coming into Gregory’s relaxed body; likely he was close to awakening.

And yes, there it was – the tiny, rumbly growl of a noise that he knew signified the approach of wakefulness for Gregory. For the first time in the history of their relationship, Mycroft was willing to acknowledge that he found that sound to be utterly adorable.

“Myc?” Gregory didn’t sound quite as confused as Mycroft might have anticipated – was that good? Instinctively, he pulled the other man slightly closer before answering.

“Yes, Gregory, I’m here.”

“Myc?”

“Yes?”

_Now_ he began to sound somewhat endearingly baffled. “M’I awake?”

It really wasn’t on – not a bit – for him to chuckle right now, but Mycroft could hardly help it. “Yes, darling Gregory. You’re awake.” 

Without trying to disengage himself from their impromptu embrace, Greg did pull back just a bit so that he could look at Mycroft’s face. His expression held a hint of – what? Was it suspicion, or disbelief?

“See? There’s that. You’ve never called me ‘darling’ in your entire life. And then there’s this.” He vaguely gestured between them with one hand, staring intently into Mycroft’s eyes as though he could make more sense of the situation by visual deduction alone.

“I’m not complaining, not a bit, but none of this feels like I oughta be awake, Myc.” Greg shook his head as though trying to clear it. “Have we – I dunno, have we had a conversation or something that I’ve somehow managed to forget we had? Because I’m gonna be pretty damned annoyed if that’s the case.”

Mycroft rushed to reassure him. “We haven’t, no. No need for annoyance – or at least not for that reason.” 

He felt now as though he were walking on exceedingly thin ice; insecurity was not a normal feature of Mycroft Holmes’ exchanges with others, but this? This was completely outside his comfort zone. “And the only conversations that have taken place since we last spoke have been extensive inner monologues in my own head – and an accidental text exchange with my brother that will probably turn out to have been one for the ages.”

Gregory had not stopped his intent perusal of Mycroft’s expressions. “I’m not gonna lie, I can’t pretend to understand a word you just said. But whatever’s going on, I can tell by looking at you that you’re freaking right out, and you shouldn’t, I promise. You don’t have to be scared, Myc. You never have to be scared of me.”

If such a thing were possible, Mycroft would have said that he’d felt his heart crack within his chest as he listened to this man -- this man who somehow, miraculously, loved him.

“Gregory. Do you even _hear_ yourself? Even now – even when you’ve put yourself in the most emotionally vulnerable position with me, even when you’re in this uncertain, terrifying situation of your own? I'd be scared to death if I were you, but here you are, trying to protect _me_. How have I ever deserved you?” 

He went on with a shaky breath that he knew sounded far too much like a sob. “Gregory, I never dreamed that someone like you could even exist – and not only are you real, but you’ve… you’ve admitted to having feelings for me. My God, how could you possibly imagine that I would not be in love with you?”

Those beautiful, slightly swollen brown eyes had widened, taking on a suspicious gloss. “You… you’re…”

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s hair. “You thought I already knew how you felt. I'd never have toyed with your feelings, I promise you. I didn't know. I swear I didn’t. I don’t know _how_ I didn’t, but… but the fact remains. I knew how_ I_ felt, and I had begun to think that perhaps I had some hope of winning your heart as well, in time.” 

He paused, uncertain of quite how to proceed. “Then there were all the… revelations from this evening. I’ll admit to having invaded your privacy a bit –”

It was Greg’s turn for an ill-timed chuckle. “Certainly not the first time _that's_ ever happened. Oh Christ, did you get through my entire ‘I love Mycroft and I can’t ever tell him’ mopey playlist?”

Mycroft raised his head to look down into the smiling face of this beautiful man. Dear lord, he had pillow marks on his cheek and full-out bed head, and he was – would always be – the most exquisitely lovely sight Mycroft had ever seen. “Not the whole thing, no – but I’d certainly say I have ‘Overjoyed’ completely committed to memory.”

“Did you... did you like it, then?” Greg looked slightly away, his expression wavering between hope and embarrassment.

“It’s beautiful. Nowhere near as beautiful as you – “ Mycroft had to stop and smile as he watched Gregory blush rather adorably. “And as lovely as it is, I’ll admit to having had a very hard time truly listening to it for its musical merits. I was rather intently focused on what you had said about using it as a declaration, and I was quite frankly astonished.”

It was a lovely feeling when Gregory’s strong arms pulled him in then for a quick, tight hug before he leaned a bit back to look up at Mycroft.

“Astonished, were you?” It was a pleasure to see Gregory regaining his usual spirits; his eyes had some of their accustomed sparkle, and his voice held just a bit of a teasing note. “That’s pretty uncommon, isn’t it?” He was full-on smiling, now — that lovely, confidential smile that Mycroft was always willing to believe was his alone. “I think I might’ve enjoyed watching you be astonished, darlin’.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was quite the spectacle,” Mycroft replied self-deprecatingly. “I’m fairly certain that I sat frozen in place, gawping at the screen of your mobile like a love-struck trout.”

“And _that_ is a mental image that isn’t likely to leave me for a while,” Greg replied with a sleepy grin.

Mycroft looked at his beloved with an indulgent smile of his own.

“I saw that you had two of your Histagen tablets before bed – and I’m not going to question the wisdom of that on top of your involuntary intoxication last night – but now you can scarce keep your eyes open, can you?” Without conscious thought, Mycroft had pulled Gregory closer into his arms, and Greg had started to relax into the welcoming warmth.

“Guilty as charged, sir,” Greg replied muzzily. “I wasn’t really planning on having this discussion – or any other, really – before morning. I’m sorry, love...”

“No apologies necessary, my dear. Of course this is a conversation that will be much better by daylight.” Now that he did have a free hand, Mycroft was at liberty to stroke Gregory’s charmingly rumpled hair. “But I came here to be with you during the night because we were both feeling rather distressed before bedtime, if only because neither of us was fully aware of the other’s feelings. I found that even if I couldn’t speak to you before morning, I wasn’t going to be able to rest without making it clear to you in whatever way possible that all of your tenderest feelings toward me were most thoroughly requited.”

Mycroft felt more than heard Gregory’s quiet laughter against his chest as he snuggled more firmly into their embrace. “Trust me to lose my heart to some posh bastard who manages to say things like ‘tenderest feelings’ and ‘most thoroughly requited’ at fuck o’clock in the morning.”

Nestling his face into Gregory’s glorious silver hair, Mycroft wondered how he had ever deserved to feel this happy. “And trust me to succumb to the dubious charms of a rogue who believes that ‘fuck o’clock in the morning’ is somehow an actual time.”

His rogue had no response; he’d clearly already dropped back off into sleep. Mycroft was already succumbing to drowsiness as well, but there was a smile on his face.

He couldn’t wait for the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more after this, and then we're done!


	9. An Apparently Quiet Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (admittedly not very graphically) naughty bits, some of Gregory's cooking, and absolutely tooth-rottingly happy endings. 
> 
> (Not for the turnips, however. Or for Hopkins. Because seriously, they can all just fuck right straight off.)

Greg Lestrade was having a very small identity crisis.

_For fuck’s sake, I’m a copper. I’m in charge of a bunch of other coppers. I’m supposed to be some kind of hard-boiled badass, yeah?_

However, this particular badass had just caught himself humming _(very quietly, mind)_ but humming _love _songs, for fuck’s sake – all while whisking some heavy cream and eggs together with a dash of vanilla and Frangelico in a little glass bowl. 

_But “Good Morning, Starshine?” Seriously?_ If he couldn’t pull his act together pretty soon, he was going to have to turn in his badge.

Because this crap excuse for a hard-boiled copper was getting ready to make _pain perdu_ with Nutella and cream cheese for his love’s breakfast. He’d never made this particular specialty of his for Mycroft – silly as it sounded, it always just seemed too, well, _romantic_ to fix for a friend. 

Mycroft would be getting an idea of what being romanced by Greg Lestrade felt like, though, wouldn’t he? And if anyone was going to be able to balance being a badass and idiotically, head-over-heels in love at the same time, then Greg Lestrade would be that man, dammit.

He’d been a bit surprised to see Mycroft still soundly asleep next to him when he first opened his eyes. Typically it was Myc who was the first awake in the mornings and who’d already showered and dressed by the time Greg dragged his scruffy carcass out of the guest bedroom and into the kitchen. This morning, however, Myc was not only still sleeping, but was showing no sign whatever of awakening anytime soon. 

With one thing and another over the course of their friendship, they’d fallen asleep together lots of times – but only very rarely had Greg awakened in the same place as his friend, who usually woke up at some point and returned to his own room before morning. This felt like a special treat, sharing this quiet moment before sunrise, just listening to the soft sounds of Mycroft’s breathing.

Greg had smiled down indulgently at the peaceful face of his – _well, whatever they were now_ – and dropped the lightest whisper of a kiss against Mycroft’s forehead. He was going to have to get used to the constant low buzz of pure joy that felt like it was fizzing through his veins – though he didn’t see that as much of a hardship. 

With a smile that didn’t feel as though it was going to be going anywhere soon, he’d left a little… _something _on the pillow just to let Myc know that he was still there – that it had all really happened.

And the whisking looked to be done now, with the eggs/milk/etc looking all fluffy and wonderful. He’d already sliced the brioche and turned the slices into two lovely-looking Nutella and cream cheese sandwiches, so now it was nearly time to let those sandwiches soak up the fluffy and wonderful before frying them up in a pan of perfectly heated butter. Greg rinsed the whisk off at the sink, then held it like a microphone and sang into it in the empty kitchen like the world’s cheesiest lounge singer.

“…my love and meee as weeee sing, our early mornin’ singin’ song.”

“As God is my witness, Gregory, if you start the part with the ‘gliddy goop gloopy’ again, I’m going to rethink my life decisions posthaste.”

Mycroft had come into the kitchen on silent feet. It was just as well that the whisk was no longer covered in beaten egg, because it had gone flying as Greg damn near jumped out of his skin. He turned around then to see his love with a wonderful, warm smile on his face – and clutching his parrot pillow to his chest much like a little boy might with his teddy bear.

“You supposed that I’d find _this _–” Mycroft raised the pillow to gently cuff his Gregory over the head with it “—an acceptable substitute in bed for _you_?”

Greg couldn’t help grinning back. “Nah. But given that the pillow can’t cook breakfast and I was feeling a bit peckish, it seemed like a reasonable stand-in – y’know, just as a stopgap.”

Greg suddenly found himself at a loss for words, and realized that he was just standing there in the middle of Mycroft’s kitchen, smiling like some sort of idiot. He didn’t quite know what to do with all this _feeling_ – it was like there was more joy inside him than he’d been built to contain, and oh Christ, so much pure love. The very last thing he wanted to do right now was to keep fixing the damn breakfast – not with this gorgeous man standing so close, still slightly soft around the edges and a bit mussed from sleep, and still somehow unkissed. 

Honestly, it was a little overwhelming – and he certainly didn’t want to overwhelm Mycroft in turn with the fierce rush of emotion that was bubbling in him so close to the surface. Probably breakfast was the safest topic, at least for the time being. “It’ll be _pain perdu_ with Nutella and cheese in a few minutes, but I’ve yet to dip the bread or heat the butter.”

There was a longer-than-usual pause, just the slightest hesitation, before Mycroft replied. “So… you’re saying that I haven’t interrupted you at a crucial moment in the preparation?”

Mycroft’s expression was everything – _everything_ – in that moment; it was love, desire, eagerness and caution all at the same time. It was Greg’s first clue that perhaps he wasn’t the only one feeling all these brand-new and terrifying emotions, and he realized that he couldn’t wait another second. 

Not one more.

Without another word, he stepped forward to take Myc’s beloved face in both hands and leaned up just that tiniest bit to bring their lips together for the very first time.

It was electric and almost painfully tender all at once, and Greg was lost. Because, oh God, Mycroft’s mouth was _so soft_ and opened so naturally to the gentle press of Greg’s lips. Neither of them would be able to recall whose tongue had first sought entrance into the other’s mouth – but the kiss had gone from utter tenderness to smoldering heat in an instant. The two men were holding on so tightly to one another that it ought to have been painful, but it only felt right, and _perfect_, and neither of them had any intention of letting go. 

The reality of needing to breathe, however, made itself known not long afterwards, and they managed to break the kiss and loosen their embrace just enough to be able to see one another.

Mycroft was sure that there would never be a sight that he would find more arousing than Gregory’s face right now. His beautiful lips were softly parted and dark red from their kiss, and his brown eyes were as warm as melted chocolate as they looked up wonderingly at Mycroft. To have been able to put that expression on this loveliest of faces… it almost made his knees give way.

One of the most articulate men on earth was reduced to monosyllables. 

“Bed,” Mycroft gasped. “Mine. Now.”

For Christ’s sake, he had an eidetic memory. 

If Sherlock had a Mind Palace, then Mycroft had the entire damned British Library. Everything that had followed that moment should have fallen automatically into place in a predestined mental file. However, it wouldn’t be until days afterward that he’d been able to go back and organize all of the data that had temporarily exploded his mind and overwhelmed his body. 

It would all have been exceedingly frustrating if it hadn’t been so enjoyable to go back later, to relive each of the moments in his memory, as he silently sorted each detail in its own turn into a mental file to keep forever.

  * Gregory, peeling off his vintage Pink Floyd t-shirt and then trying _so_ hard to look casual as he dropped his pyjama pants to the floor. The look on his face that was bravado and nervousness all at once – a look that cracked into relief and oh, so much love – as he’d seen Mycroft _seeing _him.   
  

  * The raw terror mixed with aching want that accompanied the removal of his own clothing – and then the awestruck expression on Gregory’s face that let him know beyond any doubt that he, Mycroft Holmes, was somehow fervently desired by the world’s most exquisite man.   
  

  * The unparalleled sensation of being bodily tackled onto his own bed by a nude, golden-skinned Adonis who seemed intent upon kissing him until he had consumed Mycroft’s very soul.  
  

  * So many inarticulate sounds of desire and pleasure, but dear God, Gregory’s _words_:  
  

  * “Darlin’, if I don’t have that gorgeous cock inside me, I’m gonna explode.”  
  

  * “I’m gonna suck you until you forget your own _name_, and then you’re going to have to just lie there and watch me, because I’m gonna make us both feel _so_ good.”  
  

  * “You’ll have to feel me while I fuck myself on your cock, and I’m never going to take my eyes off of your perfect face, not once. I’m gonna take my pleasure from you, and give it right back to you, and I’ll be looking into those amazing eyes when you absolutely fucking _explode_ inside of me.”  
  

  * Mycroft, humiliatingly, managing nothing besides a whimper, and turning his face into the pillow as if to muffle himself.  
  

  * “No, darlin’, never quiet yourself for me. I want to swallow every one of those lovely sounds right from your mouth – give them all to me, love. I want every bit of you.”  
  

  * Gregory’s hands, his mouth, his exquisitely sculpted body – just_ all_ of Gregory as he absolutely took Mycroft apart, and then put him back together again with joy, with reverence, and with so much love.  
  

  * The feeling of returning to consciousness after an honestly life-altering climax with Gregory’s warm, solid weight upon him, and hearing the voice he loved most in all the world murmuring soft words of love, of praise, of forever.

_Forever._

“Don’t leave.” Those were the first coherent words Mycroft had managed since they’d entered his bedroom. “Don’t. Don’t leave.”

Gregory rolled off (which was probably just as well, since he was unfortunately too solid to be entirely comfortable). He looked searchingly down at Mycroft with sudden concern. 

“Darlin’, what on earth? Why would you think I’d leave?” 

But before Mycroft could reply, a whole new expression marred his love’s handsome features; he looked almost as if he might cry. “Oh, love. Did I… did I come on too strong, or go too far? Oh Mycroft, sweetheart, was it all right for you?”

Mycroft reached up to interrupt Gregory’s questions with gentle fingertips laid over his lips. “Darling, stop. You’re wrong. You’re perfect – _perfect_ – but you’re wrong. And right now, unfortunately, you’ve disconnected my brain and I obviously can’t make myself clearly understood.” 

He rolled onto his side to more easily access Gregory’s face, caressing the wonderful stubble of his cheek before replacing his fingers on his love’s mouth with a soft kiss. “Of _course _it was ‘all right’, you ridiculous, beautiful man. It may well have been the most earth-shattering experience of my life.” 

He moved impossibly closer, nestling his face into the warmth and the wonderful, solid muscle of Gregory’s chest. “I’ll need to remember in future that some of your supposed confidence is just a façade to make me feel more at ease, and that you’ll often require as much reassurance as I do.”

Gregory seemed not to know how to respond to that, but shifted so that he could drop a soft kiss into Mycroft’s hair.

“What I meant, dearest boy, when I so inarticulately asked you not to leave had nothing to do with our lovemaking – or at least, not in any kind of a negative way.” Mycroft smiled softly as he felt Gregory relax against him, just a bit.

“I was, in fact, being uncharacteristically literal. Quite simply, I do not wish for you to leave. Not this morning, not this evening, not ever. I want you to stay. Here. With me. Permanently.” 

He backed away just a bit so that he could see Gregory’s face, and was absolutely enchanted by the expression of dawning joy he saw there. “You’re mine now, and I’m yours, and that’s utterly non-negotiable. And as to our ability to live together? I feel that we’ve already managed to affirm our compatibility on absolutely every level over a considerable length of time. We are the very best of friends, the most well-matched of colleagues, and –“

Mycroft couldn’t resist kissing that lovely, smiling mouth as Gregory just stared at him in sheer wonder. “And if you think, you exquisite creature, that I’ll let you sleep somewhere that I am not, _ever_ again, you are sadly mistaken, my beloved.” 

He planted a much more playful kiss on the tip of Gregory’s nose. “I’ll need to be keeping you close to hand if for no other reason than that now, I know what you’re capable of preparing for my breakfast.”

Gregory’s burble of laughter was one of the loveliest things Mycroft had ever heard, and he absolutely adored the impish smile that now winked up at him. 

“To be clear,” he asked with pretended innocence as he reached over to cup Mycroft’s cheek, “when you’re talking about _breakfast_, would that be the _pain perdu_ or the blow job that you’re referring to?”

Mycroft Holmes had no right – no right at all – to be so happy. 

With a futile attempt to stroke Gregory’s irretrievably tousled hair into some sort of order, he suppressed his own mirth and conjured up the most obnoxiously official voice he could find. 

“Detective Inspector,” he intoned, “you can hardly expect me to answer a question like that based on incomplete data.” 

He gave Gregory his very best “you’re an idiot” raised eyebrow.

“I clearly have yet to sample the _pain perdu_, you ridiculous man.”

~oOo~

To all outward appearances, it would have seemed to be a quiet and uneventful Saturday at Mr. Holmes’ residence. The security detail assigned to the lobby noted no unusual comings or goings, and Anthea received an unusually small number of texts with questions or instructions of any sort. 

She had sent a few brief messages to her employer and the Detective Inspector mid-morning with some key information about the attack of sorts they had experienced the previous night. One of those messages contained an audio file from Mr. S. Holmes’ and Dr. Watson’s residence, in which the erstwhile Sergeant Hopkins (now simply referred to as “the perpetrator” or “the prisoner,”) detailed what he had done and his rather juvenile reasons for having done it.

Gregory had clearly been hurt to hear Hopkins’ scornful words about him, and in an instant he’d been pulled into a comforting embrace by his love, who’d been sitting next to him on the sofa. As the recording proceeded, both men had frozen in shocked disbelief at the fierce reprimand that Hopkins had received from Sherlock – and neither of them chose to mention that they’d shed a tear or two at the sincere love and loyalty the younger man had expressed toward them both.

“Good thing Sherlock’s not here to see us now,” Greg said, with what was probably not a sniffle.

“Oh, indeed,” Mycroft replied. “The good doctor would have to whisk him off to the ophthalmologist straightaway for sprained eye muscles.” He smiled, a bit ruefully. “It’s a wonder he didn’t roll them right out of their sockets last night after the exchange he and I had.”

Because of course Greg had seen that exchange – it was, after all, on his own mobile – early in the morning when he’d first arisen. He’d never have believed that the brothers could have had that kind of civil and actually meaningful dialogue if he hadn’t read it himself – and for all his snarky asides, it had been clear that Sherlock had been acting with Greg’s (and even Mycroft's) best interests at heart. 

He remembered what he’d said once to John Watson: “Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day—if we're very, very lucky—he might even be a good one.”

It seemed they’d been very lucky indeed – and if Greg wasn’t mistaken, the good doctor himself had had a great deal to do with that.

“It seems that love has changed my little brother,” Mycroft remarked – reading Greg’s mind as per bloody usual. He could hardly bring himself to be bothered about that, though. Not today, at least.

And certainly not when Myc was smiling down at him as though he were some sort of a miracle. “And I’d certainly know. It’s changed me, too.”

Greg felt his heart squeeze. “It hasn’t, really, darlin’.” He brushed a quick kiss on Myc’s cheek. “You’ve always been a truly good, kind man at your heart – you just needed someone to hold a mirror to you long enough for you to see it for yourself.” 

Another, slower kiss – this time on Mycroft’s lovely, lovely lips. “If I can manage someday for you to love yourself even half as much as I love you, I’ll be pretty damned happy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mycroft answered with an enigmatic smile, “you wouldn’t think I was a good and kind man if you knew some of the things I’ve been responsible for.”

Greg took a moment to snuggle in just a bit closer, and did a bit of mind-reading of his own. “I’m never going to see Stanley Hopkins ever again, am I?”

Mycroft looked up, just a bit surprised at Gregory’s quick deduction – and at the curious lack of concern on his face at the idea he’d just put forth.

“If it makes you feel better,” Mycroft said quietly, “I haven’t had him killed or tortured.” 

His beautiful, frankly astonishing Gregory actually_ laughed_.

“While I’m thrilled that you’re not feeling undeservedly defensive on Hopkins’ part for once, I’ll admit to being a bit surprised, darling – why the change of heart? After all, this is hardly the first time he’d targeted you.”

Mycroft saw something then behind Gregory’s answering, vaguely feral smile that he’d never seen there before; he felt a bit concerned and _extremely_ aroused, all at the same time. Here, he realized, was a man who was capable of truly frightening things, with enough provocation. 

“True enough, love. But this time, it was different.” Those velvety brown eyes were fixed on him so intently, and Mycroft knew at that moment that this man – this warm, wonderful, _terrifying_ man – was the one human being on earth who was destined to be his forever.

“This time, Myc, he didn’t just get me. This time, he got you – and that is inexcusable. Unforgivable.”

Greg shook his head a bit, as though trying to rid himself of some of the cold fury that had come over him. “If you’d have come to any actual harm,” he said deceptively calmly, “he’d have _wished_ your people had him once I’d got hold of him.”

He’d barely finished his sentence when Mycroft had leapt to his feet, pulling Greg up with him and into a passionate, nearly violent kiss that came close to making them both lose their balance before they’d even quite found it.

“You cannot,” Mycroft said with a deep, shuddering inhalation, “you cannot _imagine _how unutterably desirable you are right now.”

Gregory was being dragged – not at all unwillingly, but dragged nonetheless, and with great determination – back to Mycroft’s bedroom. 

“My God, you’re perfect. You’re _perfect_. And you’re mine.” They hadn’t exerted themselves in any way – not yet – but Mycroft could barely breathe for wanting this magnificent man. “Oh, God. I have to have you, you have to have me – but oh God, just now. _Now_.”

~oOo~

Over the course of a long, lazy Saturday morning, they discovered that there seemed to be no limit to the different and lovely ways they could provide pleasure to one another. Eventually, Mycroft decreed that the _pain perdu_, while exquisite, would be something he’d only want once in a day – and therefore, the fellatio would have to be considered its superior. (Gregory was not offended.)

They both expressed some surprise, later that afternoon, at how easy it felt to simply _be_ together – and how little their relationship seemed to have changed, even with the rather momentous events of the previous twelve or so hours.

“D’you suppose we’ve been in love for ages, and just not realized it?” Greg looked absolutely edible, stretched across Mycroft’s bed in nothing but one of his love’s secretly bespoke dressing gowns.

“Not _realized_ it?” Mycroft might have been at risk for an exasperation-induced eyeball sprain injury himself. “Dear lord, have you any _idea_ how long I’ve been languishing in what I supposed to be unrequited adoration for you?”

Greg couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you weren’t kidding, were you? You really did come off sounding like something out of Jane Austen, didn’t you, love?”

Myc seemed torn between being affronted and amused. “Well, you’d know; you’re an even bigger Austen fan than I am,” he said somewhat peevishly.

Greg’s sweet kiss took the sting away from any possible affront. “Oh, sweetheart – what we’ve both suffered, just fretting to ourselves.” 

He looked speculatively at his love. “But I know we can make it better.” He waggled his eyebrows. “How can I fix it? Do you want sense? Maybe some sensibility?”

Truly, Mycroft loved that smile. “I just want you, you rogue.”

But Gregory was not so easily deterred. “I know – I could be your Captain Wentworth, if you’d like some persuasion..!”

“And I could smother you with the pillow right this moment, you utter beast.”

Clearly, the idiotic man was unstoppable – and completely irresistible, giggling like a naughty little boy. “If you wanna be my Emma –”

“No one will ever know where I’ve hidden your body. No one will even _ask_. I will make it so that you never_ existed_.”

“—I could give it to you Knightley!”

~oOo~

There were, reader, many more terrible puns in the life they shared. There was transcendently glorious sex, the occasional Colin the Caterpillar cake, many shouty viewings of Monty Python and many evenings spent dancing together in their stocking feet while singing Gregory’s sappy love songs to one another. There was always their friendship, and laughter, and more love than either of them could have ever imagined.

Somehow, without either of them proposing to the other, they found that they had both simply assumed that they would marry – which they did, in a tiny registry office ceremony with John and Sherlock as their witnesses. They vowed to love one another forever, and Sherlock only pretended to retch once. They spent a magical couple of weeks at Grandmere Vernet’s cottage in Provence for their honeymoon, just as the fields of lavender had started to bloom. (The parrot did not accompany them.)

And every Halloween, just for the sake of tradition, they carved a couple of turnips into jack-o'-lanterns and horrified the neighbors.

They lived, and loved, happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll have noticed (because my readers are nothing if not perceptive) that this story is now complete.
> 
> I know that it's a bit of a gamble to jump into a WIP, and so I'm especially thankful to all the readers who have taken a chance on my silly little story that, while it remained silly, did most emphatically NOT remain "little." With her permission, I've now gone ahead and gifted this to Vulpesmellifera, who was always so encouraging and never made fun of me when I finished a Halloween piece in freaking MAY. (I believe it could now be considered early for Halloween 2020; that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)
> 
> However, for that wonderul little bunch who jumped in with comments and flailed with me at the end of each chapter (and you know who you are) -- please know that you're what kept me motivated to stay this story going all the way to the end. I love you all!


End file.
